FEBRUARY 


EDITED  BY 

OSCAR    FAY    ADAMS 


SLOWLY,  with  shaking  staff  and  snowy  stole, 
His  frosty-bearded  lips  wild  muttering, 

Gaunt  dying  Winter  grimly  plods  along; 
What  sound  has  thus  disturbed  his  peace  of  soul  ? 
Ah !  he  has  caught  a  presage  of  the  Spring, 
The  faint  far  echo  of  a  throstle's  song ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


BOSTON 
D.   LOTHROP    AND    COMPANY 

FRANKLIN  AND  HAWLEY  STREETS 


COPYRIGHT,  1886,  BY 
D.  LOTHROP  AND   COMPANY. 


BOSTON  : 

COMPOSITION   AND   ELECTROTYPING   BY 
C.    P.   MATTOON   AND  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


WITH  the  lengthening  days  which  distinguish  the 
third  month  of  winter  from  its  predecessor,  come  ardent 
desires  for  spring,  and  longings  for  the  time  of  birds  and 
flowers.  An  adventurous  swallow  too  early  flying  from 
the  south,  a  vision  of  snowdrops  in  the  snow,  a  day  of 
April  warmth  lit  by  a  slant  February  sun,  are  all  hailed 
with  pleasure  as  harbingers  of  a  more  gracious  season 
on  its  northward  way.  It  is  this  attitude  of  the  mind  in 
February  which  the  editor  has  endeavored  to  illustrate 
in  this  number  of  Through  the  Year  with  the  Poets. 
To  many  persons,  however,  the  Valentine  season  is  the 
central  fact  of  the  month ;  and  the  editor,  recognizing 
this,  has  therefore  included  several  of  the  best  poems 
which  have  been  inspired  by  this  tender  as  well  as  fer- 
tile theme.  One  of  these,  which  will  be  found  on  the 
forty-seventh  page,  now  appears  for  the  first  time,  having 
been  written  for  this  volume  by  Mr.  Frank  Dempster 
Sherman,  —  a  name  most  pleasantly  known  among  those 
of  younger  American  poets.  Mr.  Clinton  Scollard's 
graceful  lines  upon  the  title-page  were  written  for  their 
present  niche ;  and  "  February,"  by  Mrs.  Jane  G.  Austin, 


20415SH 


IV  PREFACE. 

is  also  an  original  contribution  to  the  book.  "The 
February  Hush,"  by  Col.  T.  W.  Higginson,  though  writ- 
ten some  years  ago,  is  now  first  printed  by  the  kind 
permission  of  the  author. 

The  editor  again  acknowledges  the  many  favors  re- 
ceived from  various  authors  in  the  course  of  his  work, 
and  the  publishers  express  their  thanks  to  Messrs. 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. ;  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons ;  J.  B. 
Lippincott  Co. ;  Cupples,  Upham  &  Co. ;  Ticknor  &  Co. ; 
Lee  &  Shepard ;  Roberts  Brothers ;  and  the  Century 
Company,  for  permission  to  include  the  several  poems 
of  which  they  control  the  copyright;  and  also  to  Miss 
Emily  C.  Weeks  for  the  use  of  two  poems  by  her 
brother,  the  late  Robert  Kelley  Weeks ;  and  Mr.  Parke 
Godwin  for  the  use  of  two  poems  by  Mr.  Bryant. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  January  14,  1886. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  WINTER  SLEEP  .  .  .  William  Canton  ...  i 

FEBRUARY Henry  W.  Longfellow  .  2 

ON  OBSERVING  A  BLOSSOM 

THE  IST  OF  FEBRUARY  .  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge .  2 

CANDLEMAS Mrs.  Harriet  Spofford  .  3 

WINTER Obadiah  C.  Auringer  .  .  4 

FEBRUARY Edgar  Fawcett  ....  4 

IN  WINTER James  Newton  Matthews,  5 

A  GLEE  FOR  WINTER  .  .  Alfred  Domett  ....  5 

FEBRUARY Henry  G.  Hewlett  ...  6 

WINTER Mrs.  Julia  C.  Dorr  .  .  7 

A  WINTER  EVENING  .  .  .  J.  Hazard  Hartzell  .  .  7 

FEBRUARY James  Berry  Bensel  .  .  8 

A  WINTER  HYMN  ....  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  .  9 
A  WINTER  SCENE  IN  NEW 

HAMPSHIRE Ernest  IV.  Shurtleff  .  .  10 

A  WINTER  DAY David  Gray n 

A  DAY  IN  FEBRUARY  .  .  Alfred  Tennyson  ...  12 

THE  WIDOW  BIRD  ....  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  .  .  13 

THE  FROZEN  CASCADE  .  .  Susan  Louisa  Higginson  .  13 
THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE 

SNOW Mrs.  Mulock  Craik      .     .  14 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GOLD-EYED  AS  THE  SHORE- 
FLOWER      ...         .    .  Algernon  C.  Swinburne  .  15 

FEBRUARY Edmund  Spenser     .        .  16 

WINTER  SUNSET     ....  Robert  Kelley  Weeks  .    .  16 

SNOW  ON  THE  MOORS     .    .  Unknown 17 

I  WENT  TO  LOOK  FOR  ROSES,  Menella  Bute  Smedley      .  18 

SKATING Paul  Hamilton  Hayne     .  18 

WINTER  TWILIGHT      .     .     .  Anna  Boynton  Aver  ill     .  19 

FEBRUARY William  Morris      ...  20 

WINTER  WINDS George  Henry  Boker   .    .  21 

SUNNY  DAYS  IN  WINTER   .  Denis  F.  Matarthy .    .    .  22 

THE  SNOW-SHOWER    .     .     .  William  Cullen  Bryant  .  24 

SLEEP,  BABY  MINE     .     .     .  W.  Wilsey  Martin  ...  26 

THE  AIR  IS  WHITE     .     .     .  John  Payne 27 

*THE  FEBRUARY  HUSH  .    .  Thomas  W.  Higginson    .  28 

WINTER  :  AN  ELEGY  .    .    .  J.  Logie  Robertson  ...  29 

SNOW-BlRDS George  W.  W.  Houghton .  29 

ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  WEATH- 
ER    Louise  Imogen  Guiney      .  30 

THE    WINTER    WALK     AT 

NOON William  Cowper      ...  30 

A  WINTER  SCENE  ....  Ernest  W.  Shurtleff  .    .  31 
O     WINTER,    WILT     THOU 

NEVER  GO David  Gray 33 

FEBRUARY  IN  ROME   .    .    .  Edmund  William  Gosse .  34 

A  WINTER  ROUNDELAY  .    .  Clinton  Scollard.    ...  34 
IN  THE  WINTER  NO  BIRDS 

SlNG Charles  M.  Thompson     .  35 

A  FLOWER Unknown 36 

*  Now  for  the  first  time  published. 


CONTENTS.  Vil 

PAGE 

LEAFLESS  HOURS     .    .    .    .  E.  R.  Bulwer-Lytton  .    .  37 

SNOW  SHADOWS Henry  Hartshorne  ...  37 

ON  THE    FRENCH   EXPEDI- 
TION TO  RUSSIA      .     .     .  William  Words-worth .     .  38 

THE  MOTH Charles  De  Kay ....  38 

*FEBRUARY Mrs.  Jane  G.  Austin  .    .  39 

THE    THRUSH    IN    FEBRU- 
ARY      George  Meredith ....  40 

A  VALENTINE Frank  D.  Sherman      .    .  43 

A  HYMN  TO  BISHOP  SAINT 

VALENTINE Leigh  Hunt 44 

VALENTINE  VERSES     .    .    .  Francis  W.  Bourdillon    .  46 

*!N  FEBRUARY Frank  D.  Sherman     .    .  47 

LINES  SUGGESTED    BY  THE 

I4TH  OF  FEBRUARY    .    .  Charles  Stuart  Calverley .  48 
VALENTINE    IN    FORM    OF 

BALLADE Andrew  Lang     ....  49 

VALENTINE'S  DAY,  1873 .    .  Charles  Kingsley    ...  50 

FORESHADOWINGS    ....  Mrs.  Julia  C.  Dorr     .     .  51 

WHAT  MAY  BE Nora  Perry 53 

THE  SNOW  LIES  WHITE     .    Jean  Ingelow 53 

NIGHT-WINDS  IN  WINTER  .  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne     .  54 

A  BITTER  WINTER      .    .    .  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  .    .  .55 

FEBRUARY Mrs.  Mary  B.  Dodge  .    .  56 

ZERO  IN  THE  SUN  ....  Rossiter  Johnson     ...  56 

WINTER  TIME Robert  Louis  Stevenson    .  57 

SLEDGE  BELLS Jean  Ingelow 58 

PANSIES Sarah  Doudney  ....  59 

A  WINTER  PIECE    ....  William  Cullen  Bryant  .  60 
*  Written  for  this  volume. 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  A  BIRD  IN  WINTER  .    .  Edward Hovell-Thurlow,  64 

A  WINTER  NIGHT  ....  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Kinnty    .  65 

ON  THE  WIND  IN  FEBRUARY,  Christina  G.  Rossetti  .    .  65 

DESOLATE Sydney  Thompson  Dobell,  66 

FEBRUARY  RAIN      ....  Charles  Turner  Dazey    .  67 

FEBRUARY Ed-win  Arnold  ....  68 

SEASONS Lewis  Morris      ....  68 

THE  BELLS Edgar  Allan  Poe    ...  69 

IN  A  WINTER  STORM  .    .    .  Louise  Imogen  Guiney     .  69 

A  BOOK  OF  NATURE  .     .     .  Richard  K.  Munkittrick .  70 

A  WINTER  AFTERNOON  .    .  Robert  Kelley  Weeks   .    .  70 

AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY  .  Henry  W.  Longfellow     .  71 

WINTER Mrs.  Lucy  Hooper  ...  72 

THE  CRICKET William  Cowper     ...  73 

To  A  SNOWDROP     ....  William  Wordsworth      .  74 
A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SNOW- 
DROP    Maurice  Francis  Egan     .  75 

THE    SNOWDROP    IN     THE 

SNOW Sydney  Thompson  Dobell,  75 

THE  SNOWSTORM    ....  Charles  Turner  Dazey    .  77 

LONGING  FOR  SPRING      .    .  Alfred  Tennyson    ...  78 

THE  SNOW-BIRD      ....  Hezekiah  Butterworth      .  79 
WHERE    NOW   THE    VITAL 

ENERGY William  Cowper     ...  So 

A  WINTER  THOUGHT      .    .  Martin  J.  Griffin    ...  82 

THE  WINTER  WIND   .    .    .  James  Russell  Lowell      .  83 
A    VISION    OF    SPRING    IN 

WINTER Algernon  C.  Swinburne  .  84 

IN  FEBRUARY JohnAddingtonSymonds,  87 

FEBRUARY Mrs.  Helen  F.  Jackson    .  88 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

THE  FROZEN  RIVER  .  .  .  Mrs.  Augusta  D.  Webster,  88 

WINTER  RAIN Christina  G.  Rossetti  .  .  89 

DIE  DOWN,  O  DISMAL  DAY,  David  Gray 90 

EVANESCENCE Louise  Imogen  Guiney  .  91 

UNDER  THE  SNOWDRIFT  .  Mrs.  Harriet  Spofford  .  91 

WHEN  SPRINGTIDE  COMES  .  Henry  G.  Hewlett  ...  92 

THE  SNOWSTORM  ....  Ernest  W.  Shurtleff  .  .  94 

THE  SNOWDROP Agnes  Strickland  ...  94 

SAFE Mrs.  Augusta  D.  Webster,  95 

LAKE  CAYUGA  IN  WINTER  .  Mrs.  Laura  C.  Searing  .  96 
ON  RECEIVING  A  PLAQUE  OF 

APPLE-BLOOMS  ....  Clinton  Scollard  ...  97 

THE  FROST  INCREASED  .  .  William  Morris ....  98 

'Tis  THE  WORLD'S  WINTER  .  Alfred  Tennyson  ...  99 

THE  FLOWERS  TO  COME  .  Mrs.  Augusta  D.Webster,  99 

ONE  SWALLOW Emily  H.  Hickey  .  .  .  100 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS,  William  Cullen  Bryant  .  101 

SNOWDROPS:  CONSOLATION,  Sarah  Doudney  ....  102 

ROBBER  BLUEBACK  .  .  .  Charles  De  Kay .  .  .  .  103 

MIDNIGHT Mrs.  Frances  L.  Mace  .  104 

UNDER  THE  SNOWS  .  .  .  Katharine  Lee  Bates  .  .  105 

ICE George  W.  W.  Houghton  .  105 

THE  MELTING  OF  THE  SNOW,  Robert  Buchanan  .  .  .  106 

EXPECTATION Edmund  William  Gosse  .  108 

ON  A  WARM  DAY  NEAR  THE 

CLOSE  OF  WINTER  .  .  George  Dennison  Prentice,  109 

EXPECTATION Emma  Lazarus  ....  no 

THE  WINTER  RAIN  .  .  .  Jones  Very in 

AFTER  THE  WINTER  RAIN.  Ina  Donna  Coolbrith  .  .  in 

WAITING JohnAddingtonSymonds,  112 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE 

CRICKET John  Keats 113 

THE  LAST  SNOW  OF  WIN- 
TER       Sarah  Doudney  .     .     .     .  113 

FEBRUARY  THAW    ....  William  Morris      .    .    .  114 

FEBRUARY George  W.  Thornbury     .  115 

SNOW-BLOOM Lucy  Larcom 115 

LATE  FEBRUARY      ....  William  Morris .    .    .    .  116 

VOID  SPRING Philip  Bourke  Marston   .  117 

LATE  WINTER Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  117 

O  SOFT  SPRING  AIRS      .     .  Mrs.  Harriet  Spofford      .  118 

FAREWELL  AND  HAIL      .    .  Clinton  Scollard     .    .     .  119 

L'ENVOI Mrs.  Mary  E.  Blake  .     .  120 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

ARNOLD,  EDWIN. 

Born  in  Rochester,  England,  June  10,  1832. 

February  .........      68 

AURINGER,  OBADIAH  CORNELIUS. 

Born  in  Glens  Falls,  New  York,  June  4,  1849. 

Winter .        4 

AUSTIN,  MRS.  JANE  [GOODWIN]. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  February  25,  1831. 

February 39 

AVERILL,  ANNA  BOYNTON. 

Bom  in  Alton,  Maine,  February  25,  1843. 

Winter  Twilight       .......       19 

BALDWIN,  A.  H. 

Born  in  England,  18 — . 

Snow  on  the  Moors         ......      17 

BATES,  CHARLOTTE  FISKE. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  November  30,  1838. 

Spring  in  Winter     .......  xxvi 


Xll  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 
BATES,  KATHARINE  LEE. 

Born  in  Falmouth,  Massachusetts,  August  12,  1859. 

Under  the  Snows     .......     105 

BENSEL,  JAMES  BERRY. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  August  2,  1856. 

February  .         ........        8 

BLAKE,  MRS.  MARY  ELIZABETH  [MCGRATH]. 

Born  in  Dungarven,  County  Waterford,  Ireland,  September  i,  1840. 
L'Envoi    .........     120 

BOKER,  GEORGE  HENRY. 

Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania,  1824. 


Winter  Winds 


BOURDILLON,  FRANCIS  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Woolbedding,  Sussex,  England,  1852. 

Valentine  Verses 46 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN. 

Born  in  Cummington,  Massachusetts,  November  3,  1794. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  June  12,  1878. 

A  Winter  Piece 60 

The  Return  of  the  Birds 101 

The  Snow  Shower 24 

BUCHANAN,  ROBERT  WILLIAMS. 

Born  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  August  18,  1841. 

The  Melting  of  the  Snow 106 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  Xlll 

PAGE 

BULWER-LYTTON,  EDWARD   ROBERT  LYTTON. 
Born  in  Hertfordshire,  England,  November  8,  1831. 

Leafless  Hours 37 

BUTTERWORTH,  HEZEKIAH. 

Born  in  Warren,  Rhode  Island,  December  22,  1839. 

The  Snow-Bird 79 

CALVERLEY,  CHARLES  STUART. 

Born  near  Leeds,  England,  1831. 
Died  in  England,  February,  1884. 

Lines  for  the  Fourteenth  of  February    ...      48 
CANTON,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  the  Island  of  Chusan,  near  China,  October  27,  1845. 

The  Winter  Sleep I 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR. 

Born  in  Ottery  St.  Mary,  Devonshire,  England,  October  21,  1772. 
Died  in  Highgate,  London,  England,  July  25,  1834. 

On  Observing  a  Blossom  on  the  First  of  February,        2 
Late  Winter 117 

COOLBRITH,  INA  DONNA. 

Born  in  Springfield,  Illinois,  18 — . 

After  the  Winter  Rain ill 

COWPER,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Great  Berkhamstead,  Hertfordshire,  England,  November 

26,  1831. 
Died  in  East  Dereham,  Norfolk,  England,  April  25,  1800. 

The  Cricket 73 

The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon 30 

Where  now  the  Vital  Energy 80 


XIV  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGB 
CRAIK,  MRS.  DINAH  MARIA  [MULOCK], 

Born  in  Stoke-upon-Trent,  England,  1826. 

The  Path  through  the  Snow 14 

DAZEY,  CHARLES  TURNER. 

Born  in  Lima,  Illinois,  August  13,  1855. 

February  Rain 67 

The  Snowstorm 77 

DE  KAY,  CHARLES. 

Bom  in  Washington,  District  of  Columbia,  July  29,  1849. 

Robber  Blueback 103 

The  Moth 38 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY  THOMPSON. 

Bom  in  Peckham,  Rye,  England,  April  5,  1824. 

Died  near  Nailsworth,  Gloucestershire,  England,  August  22,  1874. 

Desolate 66 

The  Snowdrop  in  the  Snow 75 

DODGE,  MRS.  MARY  [BARKER]. 

Born  in  Pennsylvania,  18 — . 

February 56 

DOMETT,  ALFRED. 

Born  in  Camberwell  Grove,  Surrey,  England,  May  20,  1811. 


A  Glee  for  Winter 


DORR,  MRS.  JULIA  CAROLINE  [RIPLEY]. 

Bom  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  February  13,  1825. 

Foreshadowings 51 

Winter 7 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  XV 

PACK 
DOUDNEY,  SARAH. 

Born  in  England,  18 — . 

Pansies 59 

Snowdrops  —  Consolation       .....    102 
The  Last' Snow  of  Winter "3 

EGAN,  MAURICE  FRANCIS. 

Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania,  May  24,  1852. 

A  Legend  of  the  Snowdrop 75 

FAWCETT,  EDGAR. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  May  26,  1847. 

February 4 

GOSSE,  EDMUND  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  London,  England,  September  21,  1849. 

Expectation IQ8 

February  in  Rome 34 

GRAY,  DAVID. 

Born  in  Duntiblae,  near  Glasgow,  Scotland,  January  29,  1838. 
Died  in  Merkland,  near  Glasgow,  Scotland,  December  3,  1861. 

A  Winter  Day " 

Die  down,  O  Dismal  Day 9° 

O  Winter,  wilt  thou  never  go 33 

GRIFFIN,  MARTIN  J. 

A  Winter  Thought 82 


XVi  WDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 

GUINEY,  LOUISE  IMOGEN. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  January  7,  1861. 

Evanescence gi 

In  a  Winter  Storm 69 

On  the  Choice  of  Weather      .        .      *.        .        -30 

HARTSHORNE,  HENRY. 

Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania,  March  15,  1823, 


Snow  Shadows 


37 


HARTZELL,  J.  HAZARD. 

Born  in  Buffalo  Township,  Washington  Co.,  Pennsylvania,  18 — . 

A  Winter  Evening 7 

HAYNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON. 

Born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  January  i,  1831. 

A  Winter  Hymn 9 

Night  Winds  in  Winter 54 

Skating 18 

HEWLETT,  HENRY  G. 

Born  in  England,  18— . 

February 6 

When  Springtide  Comes 92 

HICKEY,  EMILY  HENRIETTA. 

Born  near  Enniscorthy,  Ireland,  April  12,  1845. 

One  Swallow    ...  ,    100 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XV11 

PAGE 

HIGGINSON,  SUSAN  LOUISA. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  November  19,  1816. 
Died  in  Portland,  Maine,  August  27,  1875. 

The  Frozen  Cascade 13 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  WENTWORTH. 

Born  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  December  22,  1823. 

The  February  Hush 28 

HOOPER,  MRS.  LUCY  HAMILTON  QONES]. 

Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania,  January  20,  1835. 

Winter 72 

HOUGHTON,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  WRIGHT. 

Born  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  August  12,  1850. 

Ice 105 

Snow-Birds 29 

HOVELL-THURLOW,  EDWARD. 

Born  in  England,  1781. 

Died  in  England,  June  4,  1829. 

To  a  Bird  in  Winter 64 

HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH. 

Born  in  Southgate,  England,  October  19,  1784. 
Died  in  Putney,  England,  August  28,  1859. 

A  Hymn  to  Bishop  Saint  Valentine        ...      44 
INGELOW,  JEAN. 

Born  in  Boston,  England,  1830. 

Sledge  Bells 

The  Snow  Lies  White 


XV111  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 

JACKSON,  MRS.  HELEN  MARIA  [FISKE]  [HUNT]. 

Born  in  Amherst,  Massachusetts,  October  18,  1831. 
Died  in  San  Francisco,  California,  August  12,  1885. 

February 88 

JOHNSON,  ROSSITER. 

Born  in  Rochester,  New  York,  January  27,  1840. 

Zero  in  the  Sun 56 

KEATS,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Moorfields,  England,  October  29,  1796. 
Died  in  Florence,  Italy,  February  24,  1821. 

The  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket  .         .         .         -113 
KINNEY,  MRS.  ELIZABETH  CLEMENTINE  [DODGE]  [STEDMAN]. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  December,  1810. 

A  Winter  Night 65 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 

Born  in  Holne,  Devonshire,  England,  June  12,  1819. 
Died  in  Eversley,  England,  January  23,  1875. 

Valentine's  Day,  1873       •        •        •  •         -5° 

LANG,  ANDREW. 

Born  in  England,  1844. 

Valentine  in  Form  of  Ballade          ....      49 
LARCOM,  LUCY. 

Born  in  Beverly  Farms,  Massachusetts,  1826. 

Snow-Bloom 115 

LAZARUS,  EMMA. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  July  22,  1849. 

Expectation no 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XIX 

PAGE 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH. 

Born  in  Portland,  Maine,  February  27,  1807. 

Died  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  March  24,  1882. 

Afternoon  in  February    .         .         .        .        .  71 

February 3 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 

Bom  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  February  22,  1819. 

The  Winter  Wind 83 

MACARTHY,  DENIS  FLORENCE. 

Born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  circa  1817. 

Died  in  Blackrock,  near  Dublin,  Ireland,  April  7,  1882. 

Sunny  Days  in  Winter 22 

MACE,  MRS.  FRANCES  [LAUGHTON]. 

Born  in  Orono,  Maine,  January  15,  1836. 

Midnight 104 

MARSTON,  PHILIP  BOURKE. 

Born  in  London,  1850. 

Void  Spring 117 

MARTIN,  WILLIAM  WILSEY. 

Born  in  Reading,  Berkshire,  England,  October  n,  1833. 

Sleep,  Baby  Mine 26 

MATHEWS,  JAMES  NEWTON. 

Born  near  Greencastle,  Indiana,  May  27,  1852 


In  Winter 


MEREDITH,  GEORGE. 

Born  in  Hampshire,  England,  1828. 

The  Thrush  in  February 40 


XXll  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGH 
SHURTLEFF,  ERNEST  WARBURTON. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  April  4,  1862. 

A  Winter  Scene 30 

A  Winter  Scene  in  New  Hampshire  10 

The  Snowstorm 94 

SMEDLEY,  MENELLA  BUTE. 

Born  in  England,  circa  1825. 
Died  in  England,  circa  1875. 

I  Went  to  Look  for  Roses 18 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 

Born  in  London,  England,  circa  1553. 
Died  in  London,  England,  January  15,  1599. 

February 16 

SPOFFORD,  MRS.  HARRIET  ELIZABETH  [PRESCOTT]. 

Born  in  Calais,  Maine,  April  3,  1835. 

Candlemas       ........        3 

Under  the  Snowdrift 91 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis. 

Born  in  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  1850. 

Winter  Time 57 

STRICKLAND,  AGNES. 

Born  in  Reydon  Hall,  Suffolk,  England,  July  19,  1796. 
Died  in  Reydon  Hall,  Suffolk,  England,  July  8,  1874. 

The  Snowdrop 94 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES. 

Born  in  London,  England,  April  5,  1837. 

A  Vision  of  Spring  in  Winter         ....      84 
Gold- Eyed  as  the  Shore-Flower      .        .        .        -15 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS-  XX111 

PACK 
SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON. 

Born  in  Bristol,  England,  October  5,  1840. 

In  February 87 

Waiting 112 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 

Born  in  Somerby,  Lincolnshire,  England,  August  5,  1809. 

A  Day  in  February 12 

Longing  for  Spring  . 78 

'Tis  the  World's  Winter •      99 

THOMPSON,  CHARLES  MINER. 

Born  in  Montpelier,  Vermont,  March  24,  1864. 

In  the  Winter  no  Birds  Sing 35 

THORNBURY,  GEORGE  WALTER. 

Born  in  London,  England,  1828. 

Died  in  London,  England,  June  n,  1876. 

February 115 

VERY,  JONES. 

Born  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  August  28,  1813. 
Died  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  May  8,  1880. 

The  Winter  Rain Ill 


WEBSTER,  MRS.  AUGUSTA  [DAVIES]. 

Born  in  Poole,  Dorsetshire,  England,  1840. 

Safe 95 

The  Flowers  to  Come      .        .        .        .        .        •      99 
The  Frozen  River 88 

WEEKS,  ROBERT  KELLEY. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  September  21,  1840. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  April  13,  1876. 


XXIV  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 
WEEKS,  ROBERT  KELLEY  (Continued). 

A  Winter  Afternoon 70 

Winter  Sunset 16 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Cockermouth,  Cumberland,  England,  April  7,  1770. 
Died  in  Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland,  England,  April  23,  1850. 

On  the  French  Expedition  to  Russia      ...      38 
To  a  Snowdrop        . 74 

UNKNOWN. 

A  Flower 36 


FEBRUARY. 


SPRING  IN  WINTER. 

For  me  there  is  no  rarer  thing 
Than,  while  the  winter's  lingering. 
To  taste  the  blessedness  of  spring. 

Were  this  the  spring,  I  now  should  sigh 
That  aught  were  spent  j —  but  rich  am  If 
Untouched  springs  golden  sum  doth  lie. 

CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 


FEBRUARY. 


THE    WINTER  SLEEP. 

WHEN  snow  began  she  tried  to  make 
No  noise,  —  was  frugal  in  her  mirth  ; 

She  feared  her  childish  romps  might  break 
The  wintry  slumber  of  the  Earth. 

When  roofs  shook  down  the  thawing  snow, 
And  snowdrops  peeped,  — what  joyous  cries  ! 

Had  not  dear  Earth  begun  to  throw 
The  clothes  off,  and  to  open  eyes  ? 

But  when  once  more  the  snow  came  down, 
And  hoar-frost  whitened  every  pane, 

Her  brows  were  puckered  in  a  frown, 
The  change  perplexed  her  little  brain. 

She  thought  and  thought  how  this  might  be  ; 

At  last,  "  Oh  my,  papa  !  "  she  cried  ; 
"  We  thought  she  was  awake,  —  but  she 

Has  only  turned  upon  her  side  ! " 

WILLIAM  CANTON. 


2      A  BLOSSOM  ON  THE  FIRST  OF  FEBRUARY. 


FEBRUARY. 

I  AM  lustration ;  and  the  sea  is  mine  ! 

I  wash  the  sands  and  headlands  with  my  tide ; 
My  brow  is  crowned  with  branches  of  the  pine  ; 

Before  my  chariot-wheels  the  fishes  glide. 
By  me  all  things  unclean  are  purified, 

By  me  the  souls  of  men  washed  white  again ; 
E'en  the  unlovely  tombs  of  those  who  died 

Without  a  dirge,  I  cleanse  from  every  stain. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 
The  Poet's  Calendar. 


ON  OBSERVING  A  BLOSSOM  ON  THE  FIRST 
OF  FEBRUARY. 

SWEET  Flower !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem 

Unfoldest  timidly,  (for  in  strange  sort 

This    dark,    frieze-coated,   hoarse,   teeth-chattering 

month 

Hath  borrowed  Zephyr's  voice,  and  gazed  upon  thee 
With  blue  voluptuous  eye)  alas,  poor  flower ! 
These  are  but  flatteries  of  the  faithless  year. 
Perchance,  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave, 
E'en  now  the  keen  North  East  is  on  its  way. 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  poor  Poland's  hope, 
Bright  flower  of  Hope  killed  in  the  opening  bud  ? 
Farewell,  sweet  blossom  !  better  fate  be  thine 


CANDLEMAS.  3 

And  mock  my  boding !     Dim  similitudes 
Weaving  in  moral  strains,  I've  stolen  one  hour 
From  anxious  self,  life's  cruel  taskmaster !       , 
And  the  warm  wooings  of  this  sunny  day 
Tremble  along  my  frame,  and  harmonize 
The  attempered  organ,  that  even  saddest  thoughts 
Mix  with  some  sweet  sensations,  like  harsh  tunes 
Played  deftly  on  a  soft-toned  instrument. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


CANDLEMAS. 

LIKE  some  immortal  heathen  thing, 
All  fresh  with  bloom,  with  odor  sweet, 
With  brook  and  bird  and  breeze  in  tune, 
The  beautiful  bright  earth  of  June 
Moves  to  the  fullness  of  her  noon, 
While  serving  sunbeams  round  her  fling 
The  purple  violets  as  they  fleet. 

But  when  the  winter's  feathery  rime 
Plumes  every  leaf  and  spray, 

And  the  deep  skies  about  her  close, 
With  morning's  saffron,  evening's  rose, 
Sparkling  along  her  stainless  snows, 
So  some  great  spirit,  done  with  time, 
Takes  into  space  its  white-winged  way. 

MRS  HARRIET  ELIZABETH  [PRESCOTT]  SPOFFORD. 


WINTER.  —  FEBRUAR  Y. 


WINTER. 

O  WINTER  !  thou  art  not  that  haggard  Lear, 
With  stormy  beard  and  countenance  of  woe, 
Raving  amain,  or  dumbly  crouching  low, 

In  hoary  desolation  mocked  with  fear. 

To  me  thou  art  the  white  queen  of  the  year, 
A  stately  virgin  in  her  robes  of  snow, 
With  royal  lilies  crowned,  and  all  aglow 

With  holy  charms  and  gems  celestial  clear. 

Nor  dost  thou  come  in  barren  majesty, 

Thou  hast  thy  dower  of  sunbeams  thrice  refined ; 

Nor  songless,  but  with  cheerful  minstrelsy 

Rung  from  the  singing  harp-strings  of  the  wind ; 

And   ah,   with   such   sweet  dreams,  —  such   visions 
bright, 

Of  flowers,  and  birds,  and  love's  divine  delight ! 

OBADIAH  CORNELIUS  AURINGER. 
In  the  Century  Magazine. 


FEBRUARY. 

.  .  FEBRUARY,  a  form 

Pale-vestured,  wildly  fair,  — 
One  of  the  North  Wind's  daughters, 
With  icicles  in  her  hair. 

EDGAR  FAWCETT. 
The  Afasque  of  Months. 


IN  WINTER.  — A    GLEE  FOR    WINTER. 


IN  WINTER. 

AND  then  the  snows  came,  and  the  squirrel  slept 

Within  the  upper  chambers  of  the  oak; 
And  through  the  night  the  watchful  rabbit  leapt, 

And  the  wild  fox  within  his  den  awoke, 
The  darkness  buttoned  round  him  like  a  cloak, 

And  pausing,  listened  for  the  crowing  cock ; 
Afar  the  wolf's  howl  through  the  forest  broke, 

And  the  brusque  owl  sat  hooting  on  the  rock, 
And  preening  the  feathers  of  his  antique  frock. 

JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS. 


A    GLEE  FOR    WINTER. 

HENCE,  rude  Winter !  crabbed  old  fellow, 

Never  merry,  never  mellow ! 
Well-a-day  !  in  rain  and  snow 
What  will  keep  one's  heart  aglow  ? 

Groups  of  kinsmen,  old  and  young, 

Oldest  they  old  friends  among  ! 
Groups  of  friends,  so  old  and  true, 
That  they  seem  our  kinsmen  too  ! 

These  all  merry  all  together, 

Charm  away  chill  Winter  weather ! 

What  will  kill  this  dull  old  fellow  ? 

Ale  that's  bright,  and  wine  that's  mellow ! 


FEBRUARY. 

Dear  old  songs  forever  new ; 

Sometimes  love,  and  laughter  too  ; 
Pleasant  wit,  and  harmless  fun, 
And  a  dance  when  day  is  done  ! 

Music-friends  so  true  and  tried, 

Whispered  love  by  warm  fireside, 
Mirth  at  all  times  all  together, 
Make  sweet  May  of  Winter  weather ! 

ALFRED  DOMETT. 


FEBRUARY. 

As  one  who  ere  his  manly  frame  be  knit, 
Meets  a  death-angel  on  its  winged  way, 
Who  grips  him  in  his  hand  as  if  to  slay, 

And  till  his  wasted  limbs  are  all  unfit 

To  climb  the  steep  world,  will  not  set  him  quit, 
The  spring-child  fares,  when  winter,  whose  grim 

day 
Is  well-nigh  done,  descries  him  for  its  prey. 

The  new  blade  withers,  by  its  anger  smit ; 

The  sap  recoils.     But  youth  itself  retrieves. 

The  sallow  cheek  grows  clear ;  the  blue  eye  cleaves 
Its  filmy  prison ;  the  pulse,  erewhile  so  frail, 
Leaps  high.     So  now,  in  snowdrops  pure  and  pale 
Breaks  the  sere  grass ;  the  violet  rends  her  veil ; 

In  green  or  crimson  buds  the  tree's  heart  heaves. 

HENRY  G.  HEWLETT. 
An  English  Year. 


WINTER.  — A    WINTER  EVENING.  J 

WINTER. 

O  MY  roses,  lying  underneath  the  snow ! 
Do  you  still  remember  summer's  warmth  and  glow  ? 
Do  you  thrill,  remembering  how  your  blushes  burned 
When  the  Day-god  on  you  ardent  glances  turned  ? 

Great  tree,  wildly  stretching  bare  arms  up  to  heaven, 
Do  you  think  how  softly,  on  some  warm  June  even, 
All  your  young  leaves  whispered,  all  your  birds  sang 

low, 
As  with  rhythmic  motion  boughs  swayed  to  and  fro  ? 

River,  lying  white ly  in  a  frozen  sleep, 
Know  you  how  your  pulses  used  to  throb  and  leap  ? 
How  you  danced  and  sparkled  on  your  happy  way, 
In  the  summer  mornings  when  the  world  was  gay? 

Dear  Earth,  dumbly  waiting  God's  appointed  time- 
Are  you  faint  with  longing  for  the  voice  sublime  ? 
Wrapped  in  stony  silence,  does  your  great  heart  beat, 
Listening  in  the  darkness  for  the  coming  of  His  feet? 
MRS.  JULIA  CAROLINE  [RIPLEY]  DORR. 


A    WINTER  EVENING. 

How  pale  and  weak  becomes  the  lamp  of  day, 
With  oil  and  wick  far  spent  and  burning  low, 

With  glory  flickering  in  the  yellow  ray, 
And  dying  on  the  peaceful  bed  of  snow ! 

J.  HAZARD  HARTZELL. 


8  FEBRUARY. 


FEBRUARY. 

AROUND,  above  the  world  of  snow 
The  light-heeled  breezes  breathe  and  blow ; 
Now  here,  now  there,  they  whirl  the  flakes, 
And  whistle  through  the  sun-dried  brakes, 
Then,  growing  faint,  in  silence  fall 
Against  the  keyhole  in  the  hall. 

Then  dusky  twilight  spreads  around, 
The  last  soft  snowflake  seeks  the  ground, 
And  through  unshaded  window-panes 
The  lamp-rays  strike  across  the  plains, 
While  now  and  then  a  shadow  tall 
Is  thrown  upon  the  white  washed  wall. 

The  hoar-frost  crackles  on  the  trees, 
The  rattling  brook  begins  to  freeze, 
The  well-sweep  glistens  in  the  light 
As  if  with  dust  of  diamonds  bright ; 
And  speeding  o'er  the  crusted  snow 
A  few  swift-footed  rabbits  go. 

Then  the  night-silence,  long  and  deep, 
When  weary  eyes  close  fast  in  sleep ; 
The  hush  of  Nature's  breath,  until 
The  cock  crows  loud  upon  the  hill ; 
And  shortly  through  the  eastern  haze 
The  red  sun  sets  the  sky  ablaze. 

JAMES  BERRY  BENSEL 


A    WINTER  HYMN. 


A    WINTER  HYMN. 

O  WEARY  winds  !     O  winds  that  wail ! 

O'er  desert  fields  and  ice-locked  rills  ! 
O  heavens  that  brood  so  cold  and  pale 

Above  the  frozen  norland  hills  ! 

Nature  is  like  some  sorrowing  soul, 
Robed  in  a  garb  of  dreariest  woe ; 

She  cannot  see  her  vernal  goal 

Through  ghostly  veils  of  mist  and  snow ; 

Her  pulse  beats  low ;  through  all  her  veins 
Scarce  can  the  sluggish  life-blood  start ; 

What  feeble,  faltering  heat  sustains 
The  half-numbed  forces  of  her  heart ! 

Above,  despondent  eyes  she  lifts, 
To  view  the  sun-ray's  dubious  birth  ; 

Beneath  she  marks  the  storm-piled  drifts 
About  a  waste  bewildering  earth ! 

Ah,  stricken  Mother !  hast  thou  lost 
All  memory  of  the  germs  that  rest 

Untouched  by  tempest,  rain,  or  frost, 
Shrined  in  thine  own  immortal  breast  ? 

Bend,  bend  thine  ear ;  yea,  bend  and  hear, 
Despite  the  winds'  and  woodlands'  strife, 

Deep  in  earth's  bosom,  faint  and  clear, 
The  far-off  murmurous  hints  of  life  :  — 


IO      A    WINTER  SCENE  IN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  sound  of  waves  in  whispering  flow ; 

Of  seeds  that  stir  in  dreams  of  light, 
Whose  sweetness  mocks  the  shrouded  snow, 

Whose  radiance  smiles  at  death  and  night ; 

So,  Christian  spirit !  wrapt  in  grief, 

Beneath  thy  misery's  frozen  sod, 
Love  works,  to  burst  in  flower  and  leaf, 

On  some  fair  spring-dawn  fresh  from  God ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


A    WINTER  SCENE  IN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

BLUE  starry  skies ;  hills  dreaming  in  their  snows, 

Their  silent  whiteness  high  against  the  west ; 

The  crescent  moon  along  their  silver  crest 
A  golden  flood  of  blending  beauty  throws. 
Beneath,  the  leafless  forests  grim  repose, 

Where  cold  and  dreary  shadows  brooding  rest, 

Like  melancholy  spirits  that  infest 
The  lonely  scenes  of  their  mysterious  woes. 
Nearer,  a  rough,  untraveled  road,  where  stands 

A  log-built  cabin,  from  whose  heavy  panes 
A  flickering  light  streams  o'er  the  neighboring  lands. 

Close  by,  a  tree  where  not  a  leaf  remains, 
Stretching  aloft  his  naked,  frosty  hands  ; 

And  over  all  a  solemn  silence  reigns. 

ERNEST  WARBURTON  SHURTLEFF. 


A    WINTER  DAY.  II 


A    WINTER  DAY. 

A  WINTER  day  !  the  feather-silent  snow 

Thickens  the  air  with  strange  delight,  and  lays 

A  fairy  carpet  on  the  barren  lea. 

No  sun,  yet  all  around  that  inward  light 

Which  is  in  purity,  —  a  soft  moonshine, 

The  silvery  dimness  of  a  happy  dream. 

How  beautiful,  afar  on  moorland  ways, 

Bosomed  by  mountains,  darkened  by  huge  glens 

(Where  the  lone  altar,  raised  by  Druid  hands, 

Stands  like  a  mournful  phantom),  hidden  clouds 

Let  fall  soft  beauty,  till  each  green  fir  branch 

Is  plumed  and  tasselled,  till  each  heather  stalk 

Is  delicately  fringed  !     The  sycamores, 

Through  all  their  mystical  entanglement 

Of  boughs,  are  draped  with  silver.     All  the  green 

Of  sweet  leaves  playing  with  the  subtile  air 

In  dainty  murmuring,  the  obstinate  drone 

Of  limber  bees  that  in  the  monkshood  bells 

House  diligent,  the  imperishable  glow 

Of  summer  sunshine  never  more  confessed 

The  harmony  of  nature,  the  divine, 

Diffusive  spirit  of  the  beautiful. 

Out  in  the  snowy  dimness,  half  revealed, 

Like  ghosts  in  glimpsing  moonshine,  wildly  run 

The  children  in  bewildering  delight. 

There  is  a  living  glory  in  the  air,  — 

A  glory  in  the  hushed  air,  in  the  soul 

A  palpitating  wonder  hushed  in  awe. 


12  A  DAY  IN  FEBRUARY. 

Softly  —  with  delicate  softness  —  as  the  light 
Quickens  in  the  undawned  east,  and  silently  — 
With  definite  silence  —  as  the  stealing  dawn 
Dapples  the  floating  clouds,  slow  fall,  slow  fall, 
With  indecisive  motion  eddying  down, 
The  white-winged   flakes,  —  calm   as   the   sleep   of 
sound, 

Dim  as  a  dream. 

DAVID  GRAY. 
The  Luggie. 


A   DAY  IN  FEBRUARY. 

A  BITTER  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.     Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpened  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that. pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 

That  breaks  the  coast. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
In  Memoriam. 


THE  FROZEN  CASCADE.  13 


THE    WIDOW  BIRD. 

A  WIDOW  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground, 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


THE  FROZEN  CASCADE. 

(THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  ROCK.) 

IN  beauty  perfected,  with  lavish  grace, 
She  casts  herself  about  his  rugged  form, 
With  all  her  vesture  on,  of  snowy  white, 
Nor  left  one  pendant  out,  one  dropping  pearl. 
Could  she  be  fairer  ?     Through  her  silver  veins 
The  warm  sun  searches,  as  for  some  weak  spot, 
But  with  a  pride  refined,  she  smileth  back ;  — 
"  I  gave  myself  in  beauty  to  this  Rock ; 
Ancient  he  is,  and  reverend  and  strong ; 
And  I  will  fringe  him  with  my  snowy  arms, 
And  lay  my  white  cheek  on  his  dark  gray  brow, 
Nor  ever  melt  for  all  thy  beaming  eyes  !  " 

SUSAN  LOUISA  HIGGINSON. 


14  THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 


THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 

BARE  and  sunshiny,  bright  and  bleak, 
Rounded  cold  as  a  dead  maid's  cheek, 
Folded  white  as  a  sinner's  shroud, 
Or  wandering  angel's  robes  of  cloud. 

Well  I  know,  well  I  know 
Over  the  fields  the  path  through  the  snow. 

Narrow  and  rough  it  lies  between 
Wastes  where  the  wind  sweeps,  biting  keen : 
Every  step  of  the  slippery  road 
Marks  where  some  weary  foot  has  trod. 

Who'll  go,  who'll  go 
After  the  rest  on  the  path  through  the  snow  ? 

They  who  would  tread  it  must  walk  alone, 
Silent  and  steadfast,  —  one  by  one  : 
Dearest  to  dearest  can  only  say, 
"  My  heart !  I'll  follow  thee  all  the  way, 

As  we  go,  as  we  go, 
Each  after  each  on  this  path  through  the  snow." 

It  may  be  under  that  western  haze 
Lurks  the  omen  of  brighter  days ; 
That  each  sentinel  tree  is  quivering 
Deep  at  its  core  with  the  sap  of  spring, 

And  while  we  go,  while  we  go, 

Green  grass-blades   pierce   through    the    glittering 
snow, 


GOLD-EYED  AS   THE  SHORE-FLOWER.      15 

It  may  be  the  unknown  path  will  tend 
Never  to  any  earthly  end, 
Die  with  the  dying  day  obscure, 
And  never  lead  to  a  human  door : 

That  none  know  who  did  go 
Patiently  once  on  this  path  through  the  snow. 

No  matter,  no  matter !  the  path  shines  plain ; 
These  pure  snow-crystals  will  deaden  pain ; 
Above,  like  stars  in  the  deep  blue  dark, 
Eyes  that  love  us  look  down  and  mark. 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go, 

Whither  heaven  leads  in  the  path  through  the  snow. 
MRS.  DINAH  MARIA  [MULOCK]  CRAIK. 


GOLD-EYED  AS   THE  SHORE-FLOWER. 

.  .  .  GOLD-EYED  as  the  shore-flower  shelterless 
Whereon  the  sharp-breathed  sea  blows  bitterness, 
A  storm-star  that  the  seafarers  of  love 
Strain  their  wind-wearied  eyes  for  glimpses  of, 
Shoots  keen  through  February's  grey  frost  and  damp 
The  lamp-like  star  of  Hero  for  a  lamp ; 
The  star  that  Marlowe  sang  into  our  skies 
With  mouth  of  gold,  and  morning  in  his  eyes. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 
Tristram  and  heult. 


1 6  FEBRUARY.  — WINTER  SUNSET. 

FEBRUARY. 

.  .  .  CAME  cold  February,  sitting 
In  an  old  wagon,  for  he  could  not  ride, 
Drawn  of  two  fishes,  for  the  season  fitting, 
Which  through  the  flood  before  did  softly  slide 
And  swim  away :  yet  had  he  by  his  side 
His  plough  and  harness  fit  to  till  the  ground, 
And  tools  to  prune  the  trees,  before  the  pride 
Of  hasting  Prime  did  make  them  bourgeon  round. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 

The  Faerie  Queene. 


WINTER  SUNSET. 

I  SAW  a  cloud  at  set  of  sun 

Exceeding  white  and  fair, 
High  over  every  other  one, 

And  poised  in  purer  air ; 

Like  one  that  follows,  forward  bent, 

With  arms  outspread  before, 
Into  the  splendid  west  he  went 

Just  as  the  day  was  o'er ; 

I  saw  him  turn  to  rosy  red, 

I  saw  him  turn  to  fire, 
I  saw  him  burn  away,  and  said 

This  one  had  his  desire  f 

ROBERT  KELLEY  WEEKS. 


SNOW  ON  THE  MOORS.  I/ 

SNOW  ON  THE  MOORS. 

(FEBRUARY.) 

O'ER  the  wide  waste  of  barren,  bloomless  moors, 

Whereon  not  yet  the  purple  heather  bells 

Yield  honey-spoil  unto  the  roving  bee, 

Falls  thick  and  wide  the  winter  snow. 

Long,  long  ago,  the  pale  blue  harebells  died ; 

The  golden  broom  her  petals  one  by  one 

Dropped  'mid   the   sere   brown  fern ;    and   all  the 

wealth 

Of  sweet  wild  flowers  that  make  bright  and  fair 
The  fells  in  autumn,  withered  lie  and  dead 
Beneath  the  wintry  blast. 

The  shepherd  seeks, 

Hardy  and  weather-seasoned  though  he  be, 
The  shelter  of  his  cot ;  his  bonnet  blue 
Scarce  keeps  from  off  his  scanty  silver  hairs 
The  pelting  snowstorm ;  crouch  the  shivering  ewes 
With  their  new-yeaned  and  pretty  bleating  lambs, 
'Neath  the  furze-covered  shed. 

Keen,  keen,  and  cold, 

The  north  wind  whistles  o'er  the  bleak  hillside, 
As,  chill  and  gray,  the  gloaming  closes  in  ; 
And  ceaseless  flutter  from  the  leaden  sky 
The  feathering  flakes,  till  not  a  single  bush, 
Or  tuft  or  hillock,  through  its  covering  shows, 
But  still  and  white  and  silent  all  around, 
The  landscape  lies  beneath  a  shroud  of  snow. 

A.  H.  BALDWIN. 


1 8  SKA  TING. 


I  WENT  TO  LOOK  FOR  ROSES. 

I  WENT  to  look  for  roses 

When  snow  was  on  the  ground, 
Alas,  a  withered  thorn-bush 

Was  all  the  flowers  I  found ! 

I  thought  of  summer  blossoms 

Alight  with  dews  of  mom, 
And  down  I  sate  me  weeping 

Beside  the  barren  thorn. 

Out  spake  a  grey-haired  neighbor, 

"  O  madness  !  not  to  know 
The  time  of  living  roses 

Is  not  the  time  of  snow." 

Fie  on  such  foolish  comfort ! 

It  never  dried  one  tear ; 
I  am  weeping  for  my  roses 

Because  they  are  not  here. 

MENELLA  BUTE  SMEDLEY. 


SKATING. 

I  CHASED  the  maid  with  rapid  feet, 
Where  ice  and  sunbeam  quiver ; 

But  still  beyond  me,  shyly  fleet, 
She  flashed  far  down  the  river. 


WINTER   TWILIGHT.  ig 

Sometimes,  blown  backward  in  the  chase, 

With  balmy,  soft  caresses, 
I  felt  across  my  glowing  face 

The  waft  of  perfumed  tresses. 

Sometimes  a  glance  she  shot  behind, 

O'er  graceful  shoulders  turning 
A  cheek  whose  tints  the  eager  wind 

Had  set  like  sunrise  burning. 

Then,  in  a  sudden  onward  glide, 

She  rushed  with  even  motion, 
As  a  long  wave  the  restless  tide 

Drives  shoreward  fast  from  ocean ; 

And  swift  as  some  winged  creature  sped 

Far  down  the  shining  river, 
Until  the  shining  form  that  fled 

I  dreamed  might  fly  forever. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


WINTER   TWILIGHT. 

No  summer  sunset  afterglow 

Can  match  the  soft  rose  of  the  snow 

Upon  the  pure-browed  hill : 
Blue  shadows  fill  the  dells  below, 
Sweet  airs  from  fields  of  silence  flow, 

And  earth  and  sky  are  still. 


20  FEBRUARY. 

Between  the  outer  deeps  of  night 
And  this  low  vale,  the  lingering  light 

Builds  of  the  evening  mist 
High  walls  of  glory  fair  and  far ; 
And  in  the  glory  shines  a  star 

Through  trembling  amethyst. 

O  vale  of  snow !  the  world  of  thought, 
The  spirit-realm  wherein  are  wrought 

The  dreams  that  teach  us  what  we  are, 
Is  brightened  by  a  nameless  light 
That  warms  the  peaceful  heart  to-night 

And  throbs  beyond  the  evening  star. 

O  human  kind,  why  will  ye  seek 
The  language  of  the  skies  to  speak  ? 

Day  unto  day  doth  utter  speech 
That  through  the  silence  of  the  stars, 
Through  life's  mysterious  prison-bars, 

Down  to  the  listening  soul  can  reach. 

ANNA  BOYNTON  AVERILL. 


FEBRUARY. 

NOON,  —  and  the  north-west  sweeps  the  empty  road, 
The  rain-washed  fields  from   hedge  to  hedge  are 

bare ; 

Beneath  the  leafless  elms  some  hind's  abode 
Looks  small  and  void,  and  no  smoke  meets  the  air 
From  its  poor  hearth  :  one  lonely  rook  doth  dare 


WINTER    WINDS.  21 

The  gale,  and  beats  above  the  unseen  corn, 
Then  turns,  and  whirling  down  the  wind  is  borne. 

Shall  it  not  hap  that  on  some  dawn  of  May 
Thou  shalt  awake,  and,  thinking  of  days  dead, 
See  nothing  clear  but  this  same  dreary  day, 
Of  all  the  days  that  have  passed  o'er  thine  head? 
Shalt  thou  not  wonder,  looking  from  thy  bed, 
Through  green  leaves  on  the  windless  east  a-fire, 
That  this  day  too  thine  heart  doth  still  desire  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  wonder  that  it  liveth  yet, 
The  useless  hope,  the  useless  craving  pain, 
That  made  thy  face,  that  lonely  noontide,  wet 
With  more  than  beating  of  the  chilly  rain  ? 
Shalt  thou  not  hope  for  joy  new  born  again, 
Since  no  grief  ever  born  can  ever  die 
Through  changeless  change  of  seasons  passing  by  ? 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 


WINTER   WINDS. 

O  WINTER  winds,  your  mournful  roar 

Is  burden  of  the  song  I  sing ; 
An  everlasting  dirge  ye  pour, 
A  restless  pain  that  beats  the  door 
Of  heaven  with  its  wounded  wing. 

Grief  has  no  faith ;  the  common  woe 
That  sees  a  future  hope  unfold, 


22  SUNNY  DAYS  IN  WINTER. 

Draws  comfort  thence  ;  but  as  ye  blow, 
O  winter  winds,  a  grief  I  know 

That  cannot,  would  not  be  consoled. 

Ye  wail  o'er  earth  left  desolate, 

O'er  beauty  stricken  with  decay ; 
Ye  howl  behind  the  path  of  fate, 
Deaf  to  the  voice  that  bids  you  wait, 
Ye  cry  for  what  has  passed  away. 

And  I  who  stand  with  drooping  eyes, 
What  heart  have  I  to  rise  and  greet 
The  beckoning  hopes,  that  dimly  rise, 
While  all  I  loved  and  trusted  lies 
In  ashes  at  my  faltering  feet  ? 

O  winter  winds,  add  moan  to  moan ! 

For  though  ye  give  me  no  relief, 
Ye  sound  a  fitting  undertone, 
A  dreary  note  whose  heavy  drone 

Keeps  measure  with  my  shriller  grief. 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


SUNNY  DA  YS  IN  WINTER. 

SUMMER  is  a  glorious  season, 
Warm  and  bright  and  pleasant ; 

But  the  past  is  not  a  reason 
To  despise  the  present ; 


SUNNY  DAYS  IN  WINTER.  23 

So,  while  health  can  climb  the  mountain, 

And  the  log  lights  up  the  hall, 
There  are  sunny  days  in  winter,  after  all ! 

Spring  no  doubt  hath  faded  from  us, 

Maiden-like  in  charms ; 
Summer,  too,  with  all  her  promise, 

Perished  in  our  arms : 
But  the  memory  of  the  vanished 

Whom  our  hearts  recall, 
Maketh  sunny  days  in  winter,  after  all ! 

Sunny  hours  in  every  season 

Wait  the  innocent ; 
Those  who  taste  with  love  and  reason 

What  their  God  hath  sent ; 
Those  who  neither  soar  too  highly, 

Nor  too  lowly  fall, 
Feel  the  sunny  days  of  winter,  after  all ! 

Then,  although  our  darling  treasures 

Vanish  from  the  heart ; 
Then,  although  our  once-loved  pleasures 

One  by  one  depart ; 
Though  the  tomb  looms  in  the  distance, 

And  the  mourning  pall, 
There  is  sunshine,  and  no  winter,  after  all ! 

DENIS  FLORENCE  MACARTHY. 


24  THE  SNOW-SHOWER. 

THE  SNOW-SHOWER. 

STAND  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 
On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 

The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 
And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies ; 

And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 

In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow ; 

Flake  after  flake 

They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 

From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil ; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 

Rush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow, 

Meet,  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below ; 
Flake  after  flake 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud, 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 

Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowd 
That  whiten  by  night  the  milky  way ; 

There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall ; 

The  sullen  water  buries  them  all  — 

Flake  after  flake  — 

All  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

And  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 
From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray, 


THE  SNOW-SHOWER.  2$ 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side, 

Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way ; 
As  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife, 
Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life  ; 

Each  mated  flake 
Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


Lo  !  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 
Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 

As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 

They  fling  themselves  from  their  shadowy  height. 

The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 

What  speed  they  make,  with  their  grave  so  nigh ; 
Flake  after  flake, 

To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake ! 

I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear ; 

They  turn  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought ; 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

Who  were  for  a  time,  and  now  are  not ; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost, 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost, 

Flake  after  flake, 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide  ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies ; 
And  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies, 


26  SLEEP,  BABY  MINE. 

But  the  hurrying  host  that  flew  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water,  no  more  is  seen ; 

Flake  after  flake, 
At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


SLEEP,  BABY  MINE. 

(RONDEAU.) 

SLEEP,  baby  mine.     The  failing  light  is  low, 
The  witch-elms  toss  their  branches  to  and  fro ; 

And  howling  winds  sing  baby's  lullaby. 

Move,  shadows,  move,  and  grey  frost-clouds  go  by, 
My  baby  sleeps,  whatever  winds  may  blow. 

Sleep,  baby  mine  ;  while  he,  who  loves  us  so, 
Is  daring  all  the  bitter,  drifting  snow 

Across  the  moorlands  where  the  great  winds  cry. 
Sleep,  baby  mine ! 

Within,  —  the  crackling  wood  fire's  ruddy  jglow 
Warms  each  wee  hand,  and  curled  roseleaf  toe. 
Without, — the  blinding,  biting  storm  mounts  high, 
And  barbed  snowflakes  scatter  down  the  sky. 
God  send  thy  father  ere  the  darkness  grow ! 
Sleep,  baby  mine ! 

WILLIAM  WILSEY  MARTIN. 


THE  AIR  IS   WHITE.  2/ 

THE  AIR  IS   WHITE. 

(VILLANELLE.) 

THE  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging ; 

Between  the  gusts  that  come  and  go, 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing ; 

Methinks  I  see  the  primrose  springing 

On  many  a  bank  and  hedge,  although 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

Surely,  the  hands  of  Spring  are  flinging 

Woodscents  to  all  the  winds  that  blow ; 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing ; 

Methinks  I  see  the  swallow  winging 

Across  the  woodlands  sad  with  snow ; 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

Was  that  the  cuckoo's  woodchime  swinging  ? 

Was  that  the  linnet  fluting  low  ? 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

Or  can  it  be  the  breeze  is  bringing 
The  breath  of  violets  ?  —  Ah  no  ! 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

It  is  my  lady's  voice  that's  stringing 

Its  beads  of  gold  to  song,  —  and  so 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 


28  THE  FEBRUARY  HUSff. 

The  violets  I  see  upspringing 

Are  in  my  lady's  eyes,  I  trow: 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging. 

Dear,  while  thy  tender  tones  are  ringing, 

Even  amidst  the  winter's  woe 
The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging, 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

JOHN  PAYNE. 


THE  FEBRUARY  HUSH. 

SNOW  o'er  the  darkening  moorlands ; 

Flakes  fill  the  quiet  air ; 
Drifts  in  the  forest  hollows 

And  a  soft  mask  everywhere. 

The  nearest  twig  on  the  pine-tree 

Looks  blue  through  the  whitening  sky, 

And  the  clinging  beech-leaves  rustle 
Though  never  a  wind  goes  by. 

But  there's  red  on  the  wildrose  berries 

And  red  in  the  lovely  glow 
On  the  cheeks  of  the  child  beside  me 

That  once  were  pale,  like  snow. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 


SNOW-BIRDS,  29 

WINTER:  AN  ELEGY. 

I  LOOK  from  my  lonely  window 

Over  the  snowy  plain ; 
A  hearse  and  a  handful  of  mourners 

Are  creeping  through  the  rain ! 
The  flowers  are  dead  and  departed, 

The  memory  of  summer  is  gone, 
Song  from  the  lark,  and  the  lark  from  heaven, 
And  the  day  drags  on. 

My  soul  looks  out  from  its  grating, 

And  sees  without  a  sigh 
The  funeral  train  of  youthful  hopes 

Mournfully  pass  by  \ 
Health,  and  the  joy  of  existence, 

And  the  faiths  that  were  wont  to  be, 
And  love,  and  dead  and  departing,  — 

It's  winter  with  me. 

J.  LOGIE  ROBERTSON. 


SNOW-BIRDS. 

WITHOUT  the  snow,  no  snow-birds, 
And  without  their  throats  to  sing, 

How  could  \ve  waste  the  winter, 
Or  have  a  hope  of  spring  ? 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  WRIGHT  HOUGHTON. 


30  THE   WINTER   WALK  AT  NOON. 

ON  THE   CHOICE  OF  WEATHER. 

SHALL  I  desire 

The  blossomed  languorous  months  my  realm  to  be, 
And  south  winds  blowing  from  the  sea  ? 

Shall  I  desire 

The  dewy  meadow 

In  warmth  and  shadow, 
And  oaks  that  sunbeams  crest  with  tangled  fire  ? 

Ah,  no !  ah,  no ! 

But  close  about  my  castle,  age  on  age, 
The  starry  winter  for  my  heritage  : 

Ah,  no !  ah,  no ! 

But  lone  bright  mountains, 

And  prisoned  fountains, 
The  enchanted  silence  and  the  roaming  snow. 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY. 


THE   WINTER   WALK  AT  NOON. 

THE  night  was  winter  in  its  roughest  mood ; 

The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon 

Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 

And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 

The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 

And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 

Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 

The  dazzling  splendor  of  the  scene  below. 


A    WINTER  SCENE.  31 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale, 

And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled  tower 

Whence  all  the  music.     I  again  perceive 

The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 

And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 

The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms, 

Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

The  roof,  though  movable  through  all  its  length 

As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 

And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 

The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 

The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 

With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppressed  : 

Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 

From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 

From  many  a  twig  the  pendant  drops  of  ice 

That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 

Charms  more  than  silence. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 
The  Task. 


A    WINTER  SCENE. 

THE  earth  is  wrapped  in  one  white  dream  of  snow, 
The  crescent,  like  a  broken  shield  of  gold, 

Lies  on  those  purple  depths  where  star-flowers  grow, 
And  shines  with  lambent  beams  across  the  wold. 


32  A    WINTER  SCENE. 

O'er  far  horizon-lines  the  mountains  lift 

Their  crags  against  the  cold,  unfathomed  sky, 

Encased  with  snow  in  many  a  marble  drift, 
Like  monuments  of  centuries  passed  by. 

Through  ghostly  forest  aisles,  where  not  a  leaf 
Flecks  with  its  emerald  green  the  frosty  boughs, 

The  haunting  winds  with  swelling  tales  of  grief, 
The  frozen  trees  from  heavy  dreams  arouse. 

And  sudden,  by  the  moonlight's  pallid  beams, 
A  band  of  silent  wolves  speed  through  the  snow ; 

As,  over  sorrow's  pillow,  troubled  dreams 

From  slumber's  unknown  borders  come  and  go. 

Far  from  a  distant  wilderness  of  woods 

The  fearless  owl  laughs  at  the  passing  hour ; 

Then  silence  broods  upon  the  solitudes, 

And  wraps  the  midnight  in  her  solemn  power. 

A  shadow  falls  on  all  the  hills  around, 

And  hidden  is  the  moor's  far-spreading  light, 

As  o'er  the  skies,  with  all  their  stars  profound, 
The  clouds  float  by  like  dreamy  swans  of  night. 

The  shadowy  hour  melts  into  purple  day ; 

And,  through  Aurora's  fields  of  azure  air, 
The  crimson  stream  of  morning  pours  its  way, 

And  tints  the  snow-clad  hills  with  colors  rare. 


O    WINTER,   WILT  THOU  NEVER   GO.          33 

And  soon,  beneath  a  golden  atmosphere, 
The  twinkling  crystals  of  the  starry  snow, 

Like  rainbow-flashing  diamonds  pure  and  clear, 
For  miles  outspread,  set  all  the  fields  aglow. 

And  sharp  and  strong  the  north  wind  fills  the  skies, 
And  sifts  and  smooths  the  downy  seas  of  white, 

Till  Nature  wipes  the  sorrow  from  her  eyes 
And  smiles  to  see  her  world  so  fair  and  bright. 

ERNEST  WARBURTON  SHURTLEFF. 


O   WINTER,   WILT  THOU  NEVER  GO. 

O  WINTER  !  wilt  thou  never,  never  go  ? 

O  Summer  !  but  I  weary  for  thy  coming ; 
Longing  once  more  to  hear  the  Luggie  flow, 

And  frugal  bees  laboriously  humming. 
Now,  the  east  wind  diseases  the  infirm, 

And  I  must  crouch  in  corners  from  rough  weather. 
Sometimes  a  winter  sunset  is  a  charm, 

When  the  fired  clouds,  compacted,  blaze  together, 
And  the  large  sun  dips,  red,  behind  the  hills. 

I,  from  my  window  can  behold  this  pleasure  ; 
And  the  eternal  moon,  what  time  she  fills 

Her  orb  with  argent,  treading  a  soft  measure, 
With  queenly  motion  of  a  bridal  mood, 
Through  the  white  spaces  of  infinitude. 

DAVID  GRAY. 

In  the  Shadows. 


34  .          A    WINTER  ROUNDELAY. 

FEBRUARY  IN  ROME. 

WHEN  Roman  fields  are  red  with  cyclamen, 
And  in  the  palace  gardens  you  may  find, 
Under  great  leaves  and  sheltering  briony-bind, 

Clusters  of  cream-white  violets,  O  then 

The  ruined  city  of  immortal  men 

Must  smile,  a  little  to  her  fate  resigned ; 

And  through  her  corridors  the  slow  warm  wind 

Gush  harmonies  beyond  a  mortal  ken. 

Such  soft  favonian  airs  upon  a  flute, 

Such  shadowy  censers  burning  live  perfume, 
Shall  lead  the  mystic  city  to  her  tomb  ; 

Nor  flowerless  springs,  nor  autumns  without  fruit, 

Nor  summer-mornings  when  the  winds  are  mute, 
Trouble  her  soul  till  Rome  be  no  more  Rome. 

EDMUND  WILLIAM  GOSSE. 


A    WINTER  ROUNDELAY. 

THE  mailed  sleet  is  driving 

Relentless  through  the  air, 
The  trees,  as  if  for  shriving, 

Bend  low  like  monks  at  prayer. 
Snow  hides  the  cotes  that  harbor 

The  wary  wrens  in  spring, 
And  round  the  viny  arbor 

The  frost-elves  dance  and  sing. 


IN  THE    WINTER  NO  BIRDS  SING.          35 

But  here  before  the  fender, 

Upon  my  sweet  guitar, 
I  waken  memories  tender 

Of  one  who's  now  afar : 
How  I,  her  minstrel  wooer, 

Beheld  her  casement  part, 
The  night  I  sang  unto  her 

The  hopes  that  thronged  my  heart. 

Though  no  bright  eyes  embolden 

My  lips  to  loving  lays, 
Yet  mine  are  visions  golden, 

And  dreams  of  happier  days ; 
For  when  the  winds  cease  wailing, 

And  boughs  bud  tenderly, 
My  sweetheart  will  come  sailing 

Back  o'er  the  bounding  sea ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


IN  THE    WINTER  NO  BIRDS  SING. 

"  HARPER  old,  a  love-song  glad, 

Sing  of  knights  with  maidens  wed  !  " 

But  the  minstrel,  thinly  clad, 
Smiling  sadly,  shook  his  head. 

"  Fragrant  apgle  blossoms  blowing, 
White  and  red,  and  sweet  and  pure, 

Are  the  lyrics,  bright  and  glowing 
Of  the  youthful  troubadour. 


36  A  FLOWER. 

"  But  the  frost-flakes  with  their  glitter 
White,  like  blossoms,  but  so  cold, 

Are  the  verses,  vain  and  bitter, 
Of  the  troubadour  who's  old. 

"  I've  forgotten  love-songs  glad 
Of  the  knights  with  maidens  wed. 

I  am  poor  and  thinly  clad  ; 
And  the  soul  of  music's  fled." 

CHARLES  MINER  THOMPSON. 


A   FLOWER. 

FAIR  Maid  of  February !  —  drop  of  snow 
Enchanted  to  a  flower,  and  there  within 
A  dream  of  April  green,  —  who  without  sin 

Conceived  wast,  but  how  no  man  may  know ; 

I  would  thou  mightest,  being  of  heavenly  kin, 
Pray  for  us  all  (thy  lips  are  pure  although 
The  soil  be  soaked  with  tears  and  blood),  to  win 

Some  pity  somewhere  for  man's  grievous  woe. 

A  foolish  phantasy  and  fond  conceit ! 

Yet  mark  this  little  white-green  bell,  three-cleft, 
And  muse  upon  it.     Earth  is  not  bereft 

Of  miracles ;  lo,  here  is  one  complete  : 

And  after  this  the  whole  new  springtime  left, 

And  all  the  roses  that  make  summer  sweet. 

frosts  Magazine^  February, 


LEAFLESS  HO  URS.  —  SNO  W  SHADO  WS.       3  / 


LEAFLESS  HOURS. 

THE  pale  sun,  through  the  spectral  wood, 

Gleams  sparely,  where  I  pass ; 
My  footstep,  silent  as  my  mood, 

Falls  in  the  silent  grass. 

Only  my  shadow  points  before  me, 

Where  I  am  moving  now ; 
Only  sad  memories  murmur  o'er  me 

From  every  leafless  bough  : 
And  out  of  the  nest  of  last  year's  redbreast 

Is  stolen  the  very  snow. 

EDWARD  ROBERT  BULWER-LYTTON. 


SNOW  SHADOWS. 

EACH  shining  snowflake  lets  a  shadow  fall, 
As  to  the  earth  it  softly  sinks  to  rest : 

So,  may  the  whitest,  sweetest  souls  of  all 

Seem,  sometimes,  wrong,  to  those  who  know  them 
best. 

But,  when  the  earth,  awhile  its  ermine  wearing, 
Again  grows  bare,  despite  the  beauty  given, 
Lo,  a  fair  type  of  lowliest  cross  bearing: 
The  ray,  that  casts  the  shadow,  lifts  to  heaven. 

HENRY  HARTSHORNE. 


38  THE  MOTH. 

ON  THE  FRENCH  EXPEDITION  TO  RUSSIA, 
FEBRUARY,  1816. 

YE  storms,  resound  the  praises  of  your  King ! 

And  ye  mild  seasons  —  in  a  sunny  clime, 

Midway  on  some  high  hill,  while  Father  Time 
Looks  on  delighted  —  meet  in  festal  ring, 
And  loud  and  long  of  Winter's  triumph  sing ! 

Sing  ye,  with  blossoms  crowned,  and  fruits  and 
flowers, 

Of  Winter's  breath  surcharged  with  sleety  showers, 
And  the  dire  flapping  of  his  hoary  wing. 
Knit  the  blithe  dance  upon  the  soft  green  grass, 

With  feet,  hands,  eyes,  lips,  report  your  gain ; 

Whisper  it  to  the  billows  of  the  main, 
And  to  the  aerial  zephyrs  as  they  pass, 

That  old  decrepit  Winter,  —  he  hath  slain 

That  host  which  rendered  all  your  beauties  vain ! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE  MOTH. 

WHERE  for  carpet  lay  the  gaunt  brown  trees  below 

Sifted  snow, 
On  a  cruel  sundown  in  a  losing  strife 

Writhed  a  life ; 
Quaking  pale-brown  wings  and  tender  coming  breath 

Fought  with  death. 


FEBRUARY.  39 

Frail  the  moth  and  weak  till  warmed  by  heat  of 
hand; 

Closely  scanned 
All  the  horizon  showed  no  garden  summer-sweet 

For  his  feet, 
Yet  undoubting,  from  the  saviour  palm  upreared, 

Straight  he  steered 

Forthright  to  his  one  place  in  this  dual  world. 

Winter-hurled, 
Fine  sleet  stung  him  as  he  beat  the  evening  late 

Toward  his  mate 
Where,  by  paths  untrod,  but  O,  dreamed  of, 

Lay  his  love. 

CHARLES  DE  KAY. 


FEBRUARY. 

I  THOUGHT  the  world  was  cold  in  death ; 

The  flowers,  the  birds,  all  life  was  gone, 
For  January's  bitter  breath 

Had  slain  the  bloom  and  hushed  the  song. 

And  still  the  earth  is  cold  and  white, 
And  mead  and  forest  yet  are  bare  ; 

But  there's  a  something  in  the  light 
That  says  the  germ  of  life  is  there. 

Deep  down  within  the  frozen  brook 
I  hear  a  murmur,  faint  and  sweet, 


4O  THE   THRUSH  IN  FEBRUARY. 

And  lo !  the  ice  breaks  as  I  look, 
And  living  waters  touch  my  feet. 

Within  the  forest's  leafless  shade 
I  hear  a  spring-bird's  hopeful  lay : 

O  life  to  frozen  death  betrayed 
Thy  death  shall  end  in  life  to-day. 

And  in  my  still  heart's  frozen  cell 

The  pulses  struggle  to  be  free  ; 
While  sweet  the  bird  sings,  who  can  tell 

But  life  may  bloom  again  for  thee  ! 

MRS.  JANE  [GOODWIN]  AUSTIN. 


THE   THRUSH  IN  FEBRUARY. 

I  KNOW  him,  February's  thrush, 

And  loud  at  eve  he  valentines 

On  sprays  that  paw  the  naked  bush 

Where  soon  will  sprout  the  thorns  and  bines. 

Now  ere  the  foreign  singer  thrills 
Our  vale  his  plain-song  pipe  he  pours, 
A  herald  of  his  million  bills  ; 
And  heed  him  not,  the  loss  is  yours. 

My  study,  flanked  with  ivied  fir 

And  budded  beech  with  dry  leaves  curled, 

Perched  over  yew  and  juniper, 

He  neighbors,  piping  to  his  world : 


THE    THRUSH  IN  FEBRUARY.  41 

The  wooded  pathways  dank  on  brown, 
The  branches  on  grey  cloud  a  web, 
The  long  green  roller  of  the  down 
An  image  of  the  deluge-ebb  : 

And  farther,  they  may  hear  along 
The  stream  beneath  the  poplar  row, 
By  fits,  like  welling  rocks,  the  song 
Spouts  of  a  blushful  Spring  in  flow. 

But  most  he  loves  to  front  the  vale 
When  waves  of  warm  southwestern  rains 
Have  left  our  heavens  clear  in  pale, 
With  faintest  beck  of  moist  red  veins  : 

Vermilion  wings,  by  distance  held 
To  pause  aflight  while  fleeting  swift : 
And  high  aloft  the  pearl  inshelled 
Her  lucid  glow  in  glow  will  lift : 

A  little  south  of  colored  sky ; 
Directing,  gravely  amorous, 
The  human  of  a  tender  eye 
Through  pure  celestial  on  us. 

Remote,  not  alien  ;  still,  not  cold ; 
Unraying  yet,  more  pearl  than  star ; 
She  seems  awhile  the  vale  to  hold 
In  trance,  and  homelier  makes  the  far. 


42  THE    THRUSH  IN  FEBRUARY, 

The  Earth  her  sweet  unscented  breathes  ; 
An  orb  of  lustre  quits  the  height ; 
And  like  broad  iris-flags,  in  wreaths 
The  sky  takes  darkness,  long  ere  quite. 

His  Island  voice  then  shall  you  hear, 
Nor  ever  after  separate 
From  such  a  twilight  of  the  year 
Advancing  to  the  vernal  gate. 

He  sings  me,  out  of  winter's  throat, 
The  young  time  with  the  life  ahead ; 
And  my  young  time  his  leaping  note 
Recalls  to  spirit-mirth  from  dead. 

Full  lasting  is  the  song,  though  he, 
The  singer,  passes  :  lasting  too, 
For  souls  not  lent  in  usury, 
The  rapture  of  the  forward  view. 

With  that  I  bear  my  senses  fraught 
Till  what  I  am  fast  shoreward  drives. 
They  are  the  vessel  of  my  Thought. 
The  vessel  splits,  the  Thought  survives. 

Nought  else  are  we  when  sailing  brave 
Save  husks  to  raise  and  bid  it  burn. 
Glimpse  of  its  livingness  will  wave 
A  light  the  senses  can  discern 


A    VALENTINE.  43 

Across  the  river  of  the  death 
Their  close.     Meanwhile,  O  twilight  bird 
Of  promise  !  bird  of  happy  breath ! 
I  hear,  I  would  the  City  heard. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


A    VALENTINE. 

(RONDEL.) 

AWAKE,  awake,  O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door : 

The  chilling  breezes  make  him  smart ; 
His  little  feet  are  tired  and  sore. 

Arise,  and  welcome  him  before 

Adown  his  cheeks  the  big  tears  start  : 
Awake,  awake,  O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door ! 

'Tis  Cupid  come  with  loving  art 

To  honor,  worship,  and  implore  ; 
And  lest,  unwelcomed,  he  depart 

With  all  his  wise,  mysterious  lore, 
Awake,  awake,  O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door ! 

FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN. 
In  the  Century  Magazine. 


44      A  HYMN  TO  BISHOP  SAINT  VALENTINE. 


A   HYMN  TO  BISHOP  SAINT  VALENTINE. 

THE  day,  the  only  day  returns, 
The  true  redde  letter  day  returns, 
When  summer  time  in  winter  burns ; 
When  a  February  dawn 
Is  opened  by  two  sleeves  in  lawn 
Fairer  than  Aurora's  fingers, 
And  a  burst  of  all  bird  singers, 
And  a  shower  of  billet-doux, 
Tinging  cheeks  with  rosy  hues, 
And  over  all  a  face  divine, 
Face  good-natured,  face  most  fine, 
Face  most  anti-saturnine, 
Even  thine,  yea,  even  thine, 
Saint  of  sweethearts,  Valentine  ! 
See  he's  dawning !     See  he  comes, 
With  the  jewels  on  his  thumbs 
Glancing  us  a  ruby  ray 
(For  he's  sun  and  all  to-day), 
See  his  lily  sleeves !  and  now 
See  the  mitre  on  his  brow ! 
See  his  truly  pastoral  crook, 
And  beneath  his  arm  his  book 
(Some  sweet  tome  De  Arte  Amandt)  : 
And  his  hair,  'twixt  saint  and  dandy, 
Lovelocks  touching  either  cheek, 
And  black,  though  with  a  silver  streak, 
As  though  for  age  both  young  and  old, 
And  his  look,  'twixt  meek  and  bold, 


A  HYMN'  TO  BISHOP  SAINT  VALENTINE.      45 

Bowing  round  on  either  side, 
Sweetly  lipped  and  earnest-eyed, 
And  lifting  still  to  bless  the  land, 
His  very  gentlemanly  hand. 


Hail !  oh,  hail !  and  thrice  again 

Hail,  thou  clerk  of  sweetest  pen  ! 

Connubialest  of  clergymen ! 

Exquisite  bishop  !  —  not  at  all 

Like  Bishop  Bonner ;  no,  nor  Hall, 

That  gibing  priest ;  nor  Atterbury, 

Although  he  was  ingenious,  very, 

And  wrote  the  verses  on  the  "  Fan ;  " 

But  then  he  swore,  —  unreverend  man  ! 

But  very  like  good  Bishop  Berkeley, 

Equally  benign  and  clerkly  ; 

Very  like  Rundle,  Shipley,  Hoadley, 

And  all  the  genial  of  the  godly ; 

Like  De  Sales,  and  like  De  Paul ; 

But  most,  I  really  think  of  all, 

Like  Bishop  Mant,  whose  sweet  theology 

Includeth  verse  and  ornithology, 

And  like  a  proper  rubric  star, 

Hath  given  us  a  new  "  Calendar," 

So  full  of  flowers  and  birdly  talking, 

'Tisjike  an  Eden  bower  to  walk  in. 

Such  another  See  is  thine, 

O  thou  Bishop  Valentine  ; 

Such  another,  but  as  big 

To  that,  as  Eden  to  a  fig ; 


46  VALENTINE    VERSES. 

For  all  the  world's  thy  diocese, 
All  the  towns  and  all  the  trees, 
And  all  the  barns  and  villages : 
The  whole  rising  generation 
Is  thy  loving  congregation  : 
Enviable  indeed's  thy  station ; 
Tithes  cause  thee  no  reprobation, 
Dean  and  chapters  no  vexation, 
Heresy's  no  spoliation. 
Begged  is  thy  participation  ; 
No  one  wishes  thee  translation, 
Except  for  some  sweet  explanation. 
All  decree  thee  consecration ! 

Beatification ! 

Canonization  ! 

All  cry  out,  with  heart-prostration, 
Sweet's  thy  text-elucidation, 
Sweet,  oh,  sweet's  thy  visitation, 
And  Paradise  thy  confirmation. 

JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT. 


VALENTINE    VERSES. 

I  SEND  a  sign  of  love  ;  the  shower  sends 

The   breeze  before  it,  whispering,  "He  is  com- 
ing!" 

And  the  glad  field  her  leaves  and  flowers  bends, 
And  hushes  all  her  myriad  insects'  humming. 


IN  FEBRUARY.  47 

I  send  a  sign  of  love  ;  the  morning  sends 
A  rosy  cloud,  his  mounted  messenger ; 

And  the  glad  earth  in  ecstasy  attends, 

Sure  now  her  love  himself  will  come  to  her. 

O  fairer  than  the  field,  than  the  whole  earth, 
Would  that  thy  lover's  coming  in  thy  sight 

Were  as  the  rain-cloud  to  a  land  of  dearth, 
Were  as  the  morning  to  a  world  of  night ! 

FRANCIS  WILLIAM  BOURDILLON. 


IN  FEBRUARY. 

LIKE  mimic  meteors  the  snow 

In  silence  out  of  heaven  sifts, 
And  wanton  winds  that  wake  and  blow 

Pile  high  their  monumental  drifts. 

And  looking  through  the  window-panes 
I  see,  'mid  loops  and  angles  crossed, 

The  dainty  geometric  skeins 

Drawn  by  the  fingers  of  the  Frost. 

'Tis  here  at  dawn  where  comes  his  love, 

All  eager  and  with  smile  benign, 
A  golden  Sunbeam  from  above, 

To  read  the  Frost's  gay  valentine. 

FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN. 


48  THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  FEBRUARY. 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  FOURTEENTH 
OF  FEBRUARY. 

DARKNESS  succeeds  to  twilight : 
Through  lattice  and  through  skylight 
The  stars  no  doubt,  if  one  looked  out, 

Might  be  observed  to  shine  : 
And  sitting  by  the  embers 
I  elevate  my  members 
On  a  stray  chair,  and  then  and  there 
Commence  a  Valentine. 

Yea !  by  Saint  Valentinus, 
Emma  shall  not  be  minus 
What  all  young  ladies,  whate'er  their  grade  is, 

Expect  to-day  no  doubt : 
Emma  the  fair,  the  stately, 
Whom  I  beheld  so  lately, 
Smiling  beneath  the  snow-white  wreath 
Which  told  that  she  was  "  out." 

Wherefore  fly  to  her,  swallow, 
And  mention  that  I'd  "follow," 
And  "  pipe  and  trill,"  et  cetera,  till 

I  died,  had  I  but  wings  : 
Say  the  North's  "  true  and  tender," 
The  South  an  old  offender ; 
And  hint  in  fact,  with  your  well-known  tact, 
All  kinds  of  pretty  things. 


VALENTINE  IN  FORM  OF  BALLADE.        49 

Say  I  grow  hourly  thinner, 
Simply  abhor  my  dinner, 
Though  I  do  try  and  absorb  some  viand 

Each  day  for  form's  sake  merely ; 
And  ask  her,  when  all's  ended, 
And  I  am  found  extended, 
With  vest  blood-spotted  and  cut  carotid, 
To  think  on  Her's  sincerely. 

CHARLES  STUART  CALVERLEY. 


VALENTINE  IN  FORM  OF  BALLADE. 

THE  soft  wind  from  the  south  land  sped, 

He  set  his  strength  to  blow, 
From  forests  where  Adonis  bled, 

And  lily  flowers  a-row : 

He  crossed  the  straits  like  streams  that  flow, 
The  ocean  dark  as  wine, 

To  my  true  love  to  whisper  low, 
To  be  your  Valentine. 

The  Spring  half-raised  her  drowsy  head, 
Besprent  with  drifted  snow, 

"  I'll  send  an  April  day,"  she  said, 
"  To  lands  of  wintry  woe." 
He  came,  —  the  winter's  overthrow,  — 

With  showers  that  sing  and  shine, 


50  VALENTINE'S  DAY,  1873. 

Pied  daisies  round  your  path  to  strow, 
To  be  your  Valentine. 

Where  sands  of  Egypt,  swart  and  red, 

'Neath  suns  Egyptian  glow, 
In  places  of  the  princely  dead, 

By  the  Nile's  overflow, 

The  swallow  preened  her  wings  to  go, 
And  for  the  North  did  pine, 

And  fain  would  brave  the  frost,  her  foe, 
To  be  your  Valentine. 

ENVOY. 
Spring,  Swallow,  South  Wind,  even  so, 

Their  various  voice  combine  ; 
But  that  they  crave  on  me  bestow, 
To  be  your  Valentine. 

ANDREW  LANG. 


VALENTINE'S  DAY,  1873. 

OH  !  I  wish  I  were  a  tiny  browny  bird  from  out  the 

south, 
Settled  among  the  alder-holts,  and  twittering  by 

the  stream ; 
I  would  put  my  tiny  tail  down,  and  put  up  my  tiny 

mouth, 

And   sing  my  tiny  life   away  in   one   melodious 
dream. 


FORESHADOWINGS.  51 

I  would  sing  about  the  blossoms,  and  the  sunshine 

and  the  sky, 
And  the  tiny  wife  I  meant  to  have  in  such  a  cosy 

nest; 
And  if  some  one  came  and  shot  me  dead,  why  then 

I  could  but  die, 

With   my  tiny  life  and   tiny  song  just  ended  at 
their  best. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


FORESHADOWINGS. 

WIND  of  the  winter  night, 
Under  the  starry  skies 

Somewhere  my  lady  bright, 
Slumbering,  lies, 

Wrapped  in  calm  maiden  dreams, 

Where  the  pale  moonlight  streams, 
Softly  she  sleeps. 

I  do  not  know  her  face, 
Pure  as  the  lonely  star 

That  in  yon  darkling  space 
Shineth  afar ; 

Never  with  soft  command 

Touched  I  her  willing  hand, 
Kissed  I  her  lips. 

I  have  not  heard  her  voice, 
I  do  not  know  her  name ; 


52  FORESHADOWINGS. 

Yet  doth  my  heart  rejoice, 

Owning  her  claim ; 
Yet  am  I  true  to  her, 
All  that  is  due  to  her 

Sacred  I  keep. 

Never  a  thought  of  me 

Troubles  her  soft  repose  ; 
"  Courant  of  mine  may  be 

Lily  nor  rose. 
They  may  not  bear  to  her 
This  heart's  fond  prayer  to  her, 
Yet,  —  she  is  mine. 

Wind  of  the  winter  night, 

Over  the  fields  of  snow, 
Over  the  hills  so  white 

Tenderly  blow ! 
Somewhere  red  roses  bloom ; 
Into  her  warm,  hushed  room, 

Bear  thou  their  breath. 

Whisper,  —  Nay,  nay,  thou  sprite, 
Breathe  thou  no  tender  word ; 

Wind  of  the  winter  night, 
Die  thou  unheard. 

True  love  shall  yet  prevail, 

Telling  its  own  sweet  tale  : 
Till  then  I  wait. 

MRS.  JULIA  CAROLINE  [RIPLEY]  DORR. 


THE  SNOW  LIES   WHITE,  53 

WHA  T  MA  Y  BE. 

WHEN  the  days  are  longer,  longer, 
And  the  sun  shines  stronger,  stronger, 
And  the  winds  cease  blowing,  blowing, 
And  the  winter's  chance  of  snowing 
Is  lost  in  springtime  weather ; 

And  the  brooks  start  running,  running, 
And  the  bee  sits  sunning,  sunning, 
And  the  birds  come,  bringing,  bringing, 
Such  good  news  in  their  singing 
Of  love  and  springtime  weather ; 

It  may  be  —  there's  no  knowing  — 
That  then,  when  buds  are  blowing, 
When  birds  are  greeting,  greeting, 
And  all  things  mating,  meeting, 
We  two  may  come  together, 
And  find  our  springtime  weather. 

NORA  PERRY. 


THE  SNOW  LIES   WHITE. 

THE  snow  lies  white,  and  the  moon  gives  light, 

I'll  out  to  the  freezing  mere, 
And  ease  my  heart  with  one  little  song, 

For  none  will  be  nigh  to  hear. 


54  NIGHT-WINDS  IN  WINTER. 

And  it's  O  my  love,  my  love  ! 
And  it's  O  my  dear,  my  dear ! 
It's  of  her  that  I'll  sing  till  the  wild  woods  ring, 
When  nobody's  nigh  to  hear. 

My  love  is  young,  she  is  young,  is  young  ; 

When  she  laughs  the  dimple  dips. 
We  walked  in  the  wind,  and  her  long  locks  blew 

Till  sweetly  they  touched  my  lips. 

And  I'll  out  to  the  freezing  mere, 

Where  the  stiff  reeds  whistle  so  low, 
And  I'll  tell  my  mind  to  the  friendly  wind, 

Because  I  have  loved  her  so. 

Ay,  and  she's  true,  my  lady  is  true  ! 

And  that's  the  best  of  it  all ; 
And  when  she  blushes  my  heart  so  yearns 

That  tears  are  ready  to  fall. 

And  it's  O  my  love,  my  love ! 

And  it's  O  my  dear,  my  dear ! 
It's  of  her  that  I'll  sing  till  the  wild  woods  ring, 

When  nobody's  nigh  to  hear. 

JEAN  INGELOW. 


NIGHT-WINDS  IN  WINTER. 

WINDS  !   are  they  winds  ?  —  or  myriad   ghosts,  that 

shriek  ? 

Ghosts   of  poor  mariners,  drowned   in   northern 
seas, 


A  BITTER    WINTER.  55 

Beside  the  surf-tormented  Hebrides, 
Whose  voices  now  of  tide-born  terror  speak 
In  tones  to  blanch  the  boldest  listener's  cheek  ? 
Hark  !  how  they  thunder  down  the  far-off  leas, 
Sweep  the  scourged  hills,  and  smite  the  woodland 

trees, 

To  die  where  towers  yon  glittering  mountain-peak ! 
A  moment's  stillness  !     Then  with  lustier  might 
Of  wing  and  voice,  these   marvellous  wraiths  of 

air 

Fill  with  dread  sound  the  ominous  heights  of  night. 
Athwart  their  stormful  breath  the  star-throngs  fade  : 

How  dimmed  is  Cassiopaeia's  radiant  chair, 
While    Perseus    droops,    touched    by    transfiguring 
shade ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


A   BITTER    WINTER. 

IT  was  a  winter  such  as  when  birds  die 
In  the  deep  forests  ;  and  the  fishes  lie 
Stiffened  in  the  translucent  ice,  which  makes 
Even  the  mud  and  slime  of  the  warm  lakes 
A  wrinkled  clod  as  hard  as  brick ;  and  when, 
Among  their  children,  comfortable  men 
Gather  about  great  fires,  and  yet  feel  cold  : 
Alas  then  for  the  homeless  beggar  old  ! 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 
Summer  and  Winter. 


56  FEBRUARY.  — ZERO  IN  THE  SUN. 


FEBRUARY. 

WAN,  wind-wracked  month,  of  all  the  months  most 

bare 

Of  outward  beauty  or  of  inward  grace  ; 
Reserved  of  ancient  custom  to  efface 

By  sacrificial  offering,  whate'er 

Of  taint  was  held  to  be  the  whole  year's  share  : 
One  day,  at  least,  thy  cold,  gray  arms  embrace, 
That  serves  to  set  a  dimple  in  thy  face 

And  by  its  fairness  make  the  rest  more  fair  : 

The  happy  day  when  birds  begin  to  woo 
And  win  fond  mates,  to  bless  the  tiny  nest, 
Already  modeled  in  the  tinier  breast ; 

The  happy  day  in  which,  sweetheart,  for  you, 
A  rosier  tint  o'erspreads  this  breast  of  mine, 
Sending  its  message  through  Saint  Valentine. 

MRS.  MARY  [BARKER]  DODGE. 


ZERO  IN  THE  SUN. 
i. 

As  rail  tracks  shorten  in  the  cold, 

Obedient  to  Nature's  law, 
So  shrinks  the  man  of  iron  mould, 

When  these  rude  winds  their  weapons  draw, 
These  "  eager  airs  "  of  icy  breath, 

Whose  myriad  poniards,  piercing,  chilling, 


WINTER   TIME.  .         57 

Seem  dealing  back  a  vengeful  death, 
For  cuts  of  that  proverbial  shilling. 

The  fuel-vendors  thank  their  stars 

That  Lehigh  higher  yet  must  go ; 
And  babies  cuddle  close  to  Mars, 

Because  the  Mercury  is  low; 
And  Sunday  at  the  twilight  hour, 

Once  lit  by  tinder  flames  of  Venus, 
My  flame  bewails,  with  visage  sour, 

The  coldness  that  has  come  between  us. 

I'll  don  my  double-worsted  hose  ; 

I'll  pile  the  grate  with  embers  bright ; 
I'll  read  my  Burns,  and  toast  my  toes, 

And  sing  the  songs  the  skalds  indite. 

Drink  ginger-tea  as  pudding  thick, 

Compounded  in  a  red-hot  can, 
Stirred  with  a  fire-wood  toddy-stick, 

And  ladled  with  a  warming-pan. 

ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 


WINTER   TIME. 

LATE  lies  the  wintry  sun  a-bed, 
A  frosty,  fiery  sleepy-head  ; 
Blinks  but  an  hour  or  two ;  and  then, 
A  blood-red  orange,  sets  again. 


58  SLEDGE  BELLS. 

Before  the  stars  have  left  the  skies, 
At  morning  in  the  dark  I  rise ; 
And  shivering  in  my  nakedness, 
By  the  cold  candle,  bathe  and  dress. 

Close  by  the  jolly  fire  I  sit 
To  warm  my  frozen  bones  a  bit ; 
Or  with  a  reindeer-sled,  explore 
The  colder  countries  round  the  door. 

When  to  go  out,  my  nurse  doth  wrap 
Me  in  my  comforter  and  cap ; 
The  cold  wind  burns  my  face,  and  blows 
Its  frosty  pepper  up  my  nose. 

Black  are  my  steps  on  silver  sod ; 
Thick  blows  my  frosty  breath  abroad ; 
And  tree  and  house,  and  hill  and  lake, 
Are  frosted  like  a  wedding-cake. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 

A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses. 


SLEDGE  BELLS. 

THE  logs  burn  red ;  she  lifts  her  head, 

For  sledge  bells  tinkle  and  tinkle,  O  lightly  swung. 
"  Youth  was  a  pleasant  morning,  but  ah !  to  think  'tis 

fled, 

Sae  lang,  lang  syne,"  quo'  her  mother,  "  I,  too,  was 
young." 


PANSIES.  59 

No  guides  there  are  but  the  North  star, 

And  the  moaning  forest  tossing  wild  arms  before, 

The  maiden  murmurs,  "  O  sweet  were  yon  bells  afar, 
And  hark  !  hark !  hark !  for  he  cometh,  he  nears 
the  door." 

Swift  north-lights  show,  and  scatter  and  go. 

How  can  I  meet  him,  and  smile  not,  on  this  cold 

shore  ? 
Nay,  I  will  call  him,  "  Come  in  from  the  night  and 

the  snow, 

And  love,  love,  love  in  the  wild  wood,  wander  no 
more." 

JEAN  INGELOW. 


PANSIES. 

I  SEND  thee  pansies  while  the  year  is  young, 

Yellow  as  sunshine,  purple  as  the  night ; 
Flowers  of  remembrance,  ever  fondly  sung 

By  all  the  chiefest  of  the  Sons  of  Light ; 
And  if  in  recollection  lives  regret 

For  wasted  days  and  dreams  that  were  not  true, 
I  tell  thee  that  the  "  pansy  freak'd  with  jet " 

Is  still  the  heart's-ease  that  the  poets  knew. 
Take  all  the  sweetness  of  a  gift  unsought, 
And  for  the  pansies  send  me  back  a  thought. 

SARAH  DOUDNEY. 


60  A    WINTER  PIECE. 


A    WINTER  PIECE. 

THE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 

Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 

Oftener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 

Had  chafed  my  spirit  —  when  the  unsteady  pulse 

Beat  with  strange  flutterings  —  I  would  wander  forth 

And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 

Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 

The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 

With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 

Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 

That  talked  with  me  and  soothed   me.     Then   the 

chant 

Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day  dreams.     While  I  stood 
In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 
Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 
From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 
Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.    When  shrieked 
The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods, 
And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades, 
That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 
Were   spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved   them   still ;   they 

seemed 


A    WINTER  PIECE.  6 1 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks ;  the  brook, 

Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 

As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 

The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams 

And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 

By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 

Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 

Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 

Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their  still  skirts, 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 

And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 

Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 

Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 

Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 

Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 

That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 

Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 

Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 

The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 

And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 

Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 

A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 

The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through  the  snow 

The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 

Of  fox,  and  the  raccoon's  broad  path,  were  there, 

Crossing  each  other.     From  his  hollow  tree 

The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 

Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 

Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 


62  A    WINTER  PIECE. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes,  — he  boasts 

Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows ; 

Or  Autumn  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 

All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come  when  the  rains 

Have  glazed  the  snow  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice, 

While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 

Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach  ! 

The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 

And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 

Welcome  thy  entering.     Look  !  the  massy  trunks 

Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 

Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 

Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 

That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light 

But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 

Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 

The  glassy  floor.     Oh !  you  might  deem  the  spot 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth  —  where  the  gems  grow, 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 

With  amethyst  and  topaz  —  and  the  place 

Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 

That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 

Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 

And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  ; 

Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 

And  crossing  arches  ;  and  fantastic  aisles 

Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 

Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye  ; 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 


A    WINTER  PIECE.  63 

There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air, 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light ; 
Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 
With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast  trunks 
Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 
Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 


And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines,  — 
'Tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 
Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 
The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops 
Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.     Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  windflower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at, 


64  TO  A   BIRD  IN  WINTER. 

Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


TO  A  BIRD  THA  T  HA  UNTED  THE  IV A  TERS 
OF  LAAKEN  IN  WINTER. 

O  MELANCHOLY  bird,  a  winter's  day 

Thou  standest  by  the  margin  of  the  pool, 

And,  taught  by  God,  dost  thy  whole  being  school 
To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay. 
God  has  appointed  thee  the  fish  thy  prey, 

And  given  thyself  a  lesson  to  the  fool 

Unthrifty,  to  submit  to  moral  rule, 
And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to  weigh. 
There  need  not  schools  nor  the  professor's  chair, 

Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  impart : 
He  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to  spare, 

Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart, 
And  teach  his  soul  by  brooks  and  rivers  fair, 

Nature  is  always  wise  in  every  part. 

EDWARD  HOVELL-THURLOW. 


ON  THE    WIND  IN  FEBRUARY.  65 

A    WIATTER  NIGHT. 

How  calm,  how  solemn,  how  sublime  the  scene  ! 
The  moon  in  full-orbed  glory  sails  above, 
And  stars  in  myriads  around  her  move, 

Each  looking  down  with  watchful  eye  serene 
On  earth,  which,  in  a  snowy  shroud  arrayed, 
And  still,  as  if  in  death's  embrace  'twere  laid, 

Saddens  the  spirit  with  its  corpse-like  mien  : 
Yet  doth  it  charm  the  eye,  —  its  gaze  still  hold ; 
Just  as  the  face  of  one  we  loved,  when  cold 

And  pale  and  lovely  e'en  in  death  'tis  seen, 

Will  fix  the  mourner's  eye,  though  trembling  fears 
Fill  all  his  heart,  and  thickly  fall  his  tears ; 

O,  I  could  watch  till  morn  should  change  the  sight, 

This  cold,  this  beautiful,  this  mournful  winter  night. 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  CLEMENTINE  [DODGE]  [STEDMAN]  KINNEY. 


ON  THE    WIND  IN  FEBRUARY. 

ON  the  wind  in  February 

Snowflakes  float  still, 
Half  inclined  to  turn  to  rain, 

Nipping,  dripping,  chill. 
Then  the  thaws  swell  the  streams, 

And  swollen  rivers  swell  the  sea  : 
If  the  winter  ever  ends 

How  pleasant  it  will  be. 

CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI. 
A  Year's  Windfalls. 


66  DESOLATE. 


DESOLA  TE. 

FROM  the  sad  eaves  the  drip-drop  of  the  rain ! 
The  water  washing  at  the  latchel  door ; 
A  slow  step  plashing  by  upon  the  moor ; 
A  single  bleat  far  from  the  famished  fold ; 
The  clicking  of  an  embered  hearth  and  cold ; 
The  rainy  robin  tic-tac  at  the  pane. 

"  So  as  it  is  with  thee 

Is  it  with  me, 

So  as  it  is  and  it  used  not  to  be, 

With  thee  used  not  to  be, 

Nor  me." 

So  singeth  robin  on  the  willow  tree, 

The  rainy  robin  tic-tac  at  the  pane. 

Here  in  this  breast  all  day 
The  fire  is  dim  and  low, 
Within  I  care  not  to  stay, 
Without  I  care  not  to  go. 

A  sadness  ever  sings 

Of  unforgotten  things, 

And  the  bird  of  love  is  patting  at  the  pane ; 

But  the  wintry  water  deepens  at  the  door, 

And  a  step  is  plashing  by  upon  the  moor 

Into  the  dark  upon  the  darkening  moor, 

And  alas,  alas,  the  drip-drop  of  the  rain ! 

SYDNEY  THOMPSON  DOBELL. 


FEBRUARY  RAIN.  6/ 

FEBRUARY  RAIN. 

O  LONELY  day  !     No  sounds  are  heard 

Save  winds  and  floods  that  downward  pour, 

And  timid  fluting  of  a  bird, 

That  pipes  one  low  note  o'er  and  o'er. 

Before  the  blast  the  bare  trees  lean, 
The  ragged  clouds  sail  low  and  gray, 

And  all  the  wild  and  wintry  scene 
Is  but  one  blur  of  driving  spray. 

O  day  most  meet  for  memories, 

For  musing  by  a  vacant  hearth 
On  that  which  was  and  that  which  is, 

And  those  who  walk  no  more  on  earth ! 

And  yet  this  dark  and  dreary  day 
Some  brighter  lesson  still  can  bring, 

For  it  is  herald  of  the  May, 
A  faint  foretoken  of  the  spring. 

Beneath  the  ceaseless-beating  rain 
Earth's  snowy  shroud  fast  disappears, 

As  sorrow  pressing  on  the  brain, 
Fades  in  a  flood  of  happy  tears. 

And  thus  in  darkness  oft  is  wrought, 
Through  lonely  days  of  tears  and  grief, 

The  gradual  change  by  which  is  brought 
To  shadowed  lives  some  sweet  relief. 

CHARLES  TURNER  DAZEY. 


68  FEBRUAR  Y.  —  SEASONS. 


FEBRUARY. 

RAIN  —  hail  —  sleet  —  snow — But  in  my  East 
This  is  the  time  when  palm-trees  quicken 

With  flowers,  wherefrom  the  Arabs'  feast 
Of  amber  dates  will  thenceforth  thicken. 

Female  and  male  apart  they  grow  ; 

And  o'er  the  desert  sands  is  wafted, 
On  light  airs  of  the  After-glow, 

That  golden  dust  whence  fruit  is  grafted. 

No  gray  reality's  alloy 

Your  green  ideal  can  diminish ! 
You  have  love's  kiss,  in  all  its  joy, 

Without  love's  lips,  which  let  us  finish  ! 

EDWIN  ARNOLD. 


SEASONS. 

THE  cold  winds  rave  on  the  icy  river, 
The  leafless  branches  complain  and  shiver, 
The  snow  clouds  sweep  on,  to  a  dreary  tune,  — 
Can  these  be  the  earth  and  the  heavens  of  June  ? 

The  cold  wind  sweeps  o'er  the  desolate  hill, 
The  stream  is  bound  fast  and  the  wolds  are  chill ; 
And  by  the  dead  flats,  where  the  cold  blasts  moan, 
A  bent  body  wearily  plods  alone. 

LEWIS  MORRIS. 


THE  BELLS.  — IN  A    WINTER  STORM.       69 

THE  BELLS. 

HEAR  the  sledges  with  their  bells, 

Silver  bells, 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells, 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


IN  A    WINTER  STORM. 

MY  Effie,  if  I  take  you  so 

Upon  my  knee  for  stories  brave, 
This  true  tale  first.     One  year  ago 

They  broke  the  snow  to  make  his  grave. 

The  sun  is  hid,  the  wind  is  wild, 

The  sunken  rocks  moan  east  and  west ; 

But,  lovely  as  a  little  child, 

He  keeps  blown  lilies  on  his  breast. 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY. 


JO  A    WINTER  AFTERNOON. 

A   BOOK  OF  NATURE. 

THE  Winter's  a  book  of  poems, 

Sorrowful  fantasies, 
All  pictured  with  empty  bird-nests, 

Held  in  the  lonely  trees. 

The  turquoise  skies  are  the  covers, 

Begilt  with  sunbeams  long, 
The  drifts  of  snow  are  the  pages, 
And  the  moaning  winds  the  song. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 
In  The  Century  Magazine. 


A    WINTER  AFTERNOON. 

I  STAND  where  in  the  summer  I  have  stood, 

But  all  is  changed.     There  is  no  sight  of  green 
Save  yonder,  in  the  stiff-branched  cedar  wood, 

Whose  dull,  cold  leaves  are  gloomy  to  be  seen ; 
The  little  hill  —  great  growth  of  grass  was  there, 

Where  careless  crickets  leaped  and  sang  before  — 
Rusty  and  dead,  slopes  slowly  down  to  where 

Foul  ice  lies  stranded  on  the  slimy  shore  : 
For  the  sad  river  with  a  low,  dull  moan, 

Leaving  his  shore  flows  sullenly  apart. 
But  I,  who  stand  in  silence  here  alone 

Looking  on  these,  am  nothing  sad  at  heart ; 
For  over  all  there  is  a  pure,  bright  sky, 
Wherein  the  sun  is  shining  gloriously. 

ROBERT  KELLEY  WEEKS. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY.  /I 

AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

THE  day  is  ending, 
The  night  is  descending; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o'er  the  plain ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


72  WINTER. 


WINTER. 

THE  golden  sunshine  has  fled  away, 

The  clouds  o'erhead  hang  heavy  and  gray, 

The  world  is  woefully  sad  to-day ; 

And  I  am  thinking  of  you,  dear,  you. 
The  cold  clay  hides  from  the  rain  and  dew 
The  tenderest  heart  that  the  world  e'er  knew. 

Why  should  I  think  of  you  when  the  rain 

Smiteth  so  sharply  the  window-pane, 

And  the  wild  winds  round  the  old  house  'plain  ? 

You  were  so  sweet  and  sunny  and  bright, 
Ever  your  presence  brought  life  and  light, 
And  I  recall  you  in  storm  and  night. 

When  snow-shrouds  hang  on  the  corpse-cold  trees, 
When  sharp  frosts  sting  and  the  north  winds  freeze, 
What  has  your  memory  to  do  with  these  ? 

O  fair  lost  love  !     O  love  that  is  dead ! 
The  pleasant  days  from  my  life  are  fled, 
The  rosy  morns  and  the  sunset  red. 

The  light  has  faded  from  out  my  life, 

Leaving  the  clouds  and  the  stormy  strife, 

And  the  keen,  sharp  cold  that  cuts  like  a  knife. 


THE   CRICKET.  73 

The  days  and  the  months  how  slow  they  glide, 
Gray-robed  and  cold-breathed  and  frozen-eyed ! 
The  summer  died  for  me  when  you  died. 

O  world  of  woe  and  of  want  and  pain ! 
O  heaven  of  clouds  and  storm  and  rain ! 
When  shall  I  find  my  summer  again  ? 

MRS.  LUCY  HAMILTON  QONES]  HOOPER 


THE   CRICKET. 

LITTLE  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet ; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  I  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expressed, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 
Thou  hast  all  thy  heart's  desire. 


74  TO  A  SNOWDROP. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpasses!,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are  ; 
Their's  is  but  a  summers  song, 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill,  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


TO  A   SNOWDROP. 

LONE  Flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows,  and  white  as 

they, 

But  hardier  far,  once  more  I  see  thee  bend 
Thy  forehead,  as  if  fearful  to  offend, 
Like  an  unbidden  guest.     Though  day  by  day 
Storms,  sallying  from  the  mountain-tops,  waylay 
The  rising  sun,  and  on  the  plains  descend, 
Yet  art  thou  welcome,  welcome  as  a  friend 
Whose  zeal  outruns  his  promise  !     Blue-eyed  May 
Shall  soon  behold  this  border  thickly  set 
With  bright  jonquils,  their  odors  lavishing 

On  the  soft  West  Wind  and  his  frolic  peers ; 
Nor  will  I  then  thy  modest  grace  forget, 

Chaste  Snowdrop,  venturous  harbinger  of  spring, 
And  pensive  monitor  of  fleeting  years  ! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE  SNOWDROP  IN  THE  SNOW.  ?$ 

A    LEGEND   OF   THE   SNOWDROP. 

IN  the  late  winter,  when  the  breath  of  spring 
Had  almost  softened  the  great  fields  of  snow, 
A  mother  died,  and,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Her  sad  child  sought  her — frightened,  little  thing !  — 
Through  the  drear  woodland,  as  on  timid  wing 
Flutters  a  young  bird  ;  amid  bushes  low 
It  sunk  in  sleep,  thus  losing  all  its  woe, 
With  smiling  lips  her  dear  name  murmuring : 
No  loving  arms  were  there  to  hold  it  fast, 
There  were  no  kisses  for  it  warm  and  sweet, 

But  snowflakes,  pitying,  fell  like  frozen  tears. 
Then  said  its  angel,  "  Snowflakes,  ye  shall  last 
Beyond  the  life  of  snowflakes  ;  at  spring's  feet 
Bloom  ye  as  flowers  through  all  the  coming 
years ! " 

MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN. 


THE  SNOWDROP  IN  THE  SNOW. 

0  FULL  of  Faith!     The  Earth  is  rock, — the  Heaven 
The  dome  of  a  great  palace  all  of  ice, 
Russ-built.     Dull  light  distils  through  frozen  skies 
Thickened  and  gross.     Cold  Fancy  droops  her  wing, 
And  cannot  range.     In  winding-sheets  of  snow 
Lies  every  thought  of  any  pleasant  thing. 

1  have  forgotten  the  green  earth ;  my  soul 
Deflowered,  and  lost  to  every  summer  hope, 


76     THE  SNOWDROP  IN  THE  SNOW. 

Sad  sitteth  on  an  iceberg  at  the  Pole ; 

My  heart  assumes  the  landscape  of  mine  eyes 

Moveless  and  white,  chill  blanched  with  hoarest  rime  ; 

The  sun  himself  is  heavy  and  lacks  cheer 

Or  on  the  eastern  hill  or  western  slope  ; 

The  world  without  seems  far  and  long  ago ; 

To  silent  woods  stark  famished  winds  have  driven 

The  last  lean  robin,  — gibbering  winds  of  fear  ! 

Thou  only  darest  to  believe  in  spring, 

Thou  only  smilest,  Lady  of  the  Time  ! 

Even  as  the  stars  come  up  out  of  the  sea 

Thou  risest  from  the  earth.     How  is  it  down 

In  the  dark  depths  ?    Should  I  delve  there,  O  Flower, 

For  beauty  ?     Shall  I  find  the  summer  there 

Met  manifold  as  in  an  ark  of  peace  ? 

And  thou,  a  lone  white  dove,  art  thou  sent  forth 

Upon  the  winter  deluge  ?     It  shall  cease, 

But  not  for  thee,  —  pierced  by  the  ruthless  North 

And  spent  with  the  Evangel.     In  what  hour 

The  flood  abates  thou  wilt  have  closed  thy  wings 

Forever.     When  the  happy  living  things 

Of  the  old  world  come  forth  upon  the  new 

I  know  my  heart  shall  miss  thee  ;  and  the  dew 

Of  summer  twilights  shall  shed  tears  for  me 

—  Tears  liker  thee,  ah,  purest !  than  mine  own  — 

Upon  thy  vestal  grave,  O  vainly  fair ! 

Thou  shouldst  have  noble  destiny,  who,  like 
A  prophet,  art  shut  out  from  kind  and  kin : 
Who  on  the  winter  silence  comest  in 
A  still  small  voice.     Pale  Hermit  of  the  Year, 


THE  SNOWSTORM.  77 

Flower  of  the  wilderness  !  oh,  not  for  thee 
The  jocund  playmates  of  the  maiden  spring. 
For,  when  she  danceth  forth  with  cymbaled  feet, 
Waking  a-sudden  with  great  welcoming, 
Each  calling  each,  they  burst  from  hill  to  dell 
In  answering  music.     But  thou  art  a  bell, 
A  passing  bell,  snow-muffled,  dim  and  sweet. 

Thou  art  the  wonder  of  the  seasons,  O 
Firstborn  of  Beauty.     As  the  Angel  near 
Gazed  on  that  first  of  living  things  which,  when 
The  blast  that  ruled  since  Chaos  o'er  the  sere 
Leaves  of  primeval  palms  did  sweep  the  plain, 
Clung  to  the  new-made  sod  and  would  not  drive, 
So  gaze  I  upon  thee  amid  the  reign 
Of  Winter. 

SYDNEY  THOMPSON  DOBELL. 


THE  SNOWSTORM. 

THE  clouds  are  gathering  slowly ;  dark  and  vast 
Appear  their  misty  outlines  to  the  eye, 
As  they  advance  before  the  moaning  blast, 
Obscuring  all  the  pale,  blue  winter  sky. 
And  now  the  feathery  snowflakes  slowly  fly 
In  many  a  mazy  circle  round  and  round, 
Like  some  poor  bird,  that,  soaring  far  on  high, 
With  heart  convulsive  feels  the  deadly  wound, 
And  wings  his  helpless  flight  reluctant  to  the  ground. 


78  LONGING  FOR  SPRING. 

And  now  they  faster  fall,  —  the  biting  air 

Is  filled  with  crystals  on  their  downward  flight, 

Wrapping  the  face  of  nature  drear  and  bare 

With  one  wide  mantle  of  pure,  spotless  white. 

The  snowstorm  ceases  as  the  shades  of  night 

Fall  soft  and  gentle  o'er  a  quiet  world, 

Which  grows  more  lovely  in  the  evening  light, 

Till  in  the  sky  night's  banner  hangs  unfurled, 

And  swift  and  far  away  the  gloomy  clouds  are  hurled. 

O  scene  of  purest  beauty  !  far  and  wide 
O'er  one  unbroken,  glittering  expanse 
On  hill  and  plain ;  on  each  and  every  side 
Some  lovely  object  will  enchain  the  glance. 
Brightly  the  moonbeams  fall,  and  lightly  dance 
Upon  each  crystal  which  reflects  as  clear 
The  silvery  light,  as  jewels  of  romance 
Hung  in  the  pendant  of  a  beauty's  ear, 
Who  lightly  nods  and  laughs  and  knows  no  rival 
near. 

CHARLES  TURNER  DAZEY. 


LONGING  FOR  SPRING. 

DIP  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new  year,  delaying  long : 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong : 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 


THE  SNOW-BIRD.  79 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dashed  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

O  thou,  new  year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 
And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
In  Memoriam. 


THE  SNOW-BIRD. 

IN  the  rosy  light  trills  the  gay  swallow, 

The  thrush,  in  the  roses  below  : 
The  meadow  lark  sings  in  the  meadow, 
But  the  snow-bird  sings  in  the  snow. 
Ah  me ! 
Chicadee ! 
The  snow-bird  sings  in  the  snow ! 

The  blue  martin  trills  in  the  gable, 
The  wren,  in  the  gourd  below ; 


80         WHERE  NOW  THE    VITAL   ENERGY. 

In  the  elm,  flutes  the  golden  robin, 
But  the  snow-bird  sings  in  the  snow. 

Ah  me  ! 

Chicadee ! 
The  snow-bird  sings  in  the  snow ! 

High  wheels  the  gray  wing  of  the  osprey, 

The  wing  of  the  sparrow  drops  low ; 
In  the  mist  dips  the  wing  of  the  robin, 
And  the  snow-bird's  wing  in  the  snow. 
Ah  me ! 
Chicadee ! 
The  snow-bird  sings  in  the  snow. 

I  love  the  high  heart  of  the  osprey, 

The  meek  heart  of  the  thrush,  below, 
The  heart  of  the  lark  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  snow-bird's  heart  in  the  snow. 
But  dearest  to  me, 
Chicadee !  Chicadee ! 
Is  that  true  little  heart  in  the  snow. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


WHERE  NOW  THE    VITAL  ENERGY. 

WHERE  now  the  vital  energy  that  moved 
While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph 
Through  the  imperceptible  meandering  veins 
Of  leaf  and  flower  ?     It  sleeps  ;  and  the  icy  touch 


WHERE  NOW  THE    VITAL  ENERGY.         8 1 

Of  unprolific  winter  has  impressed 

A  cold  stagnation  on  the  intestine  tide. 

But  let  the  months  go  round,  a  few  short  months, 

And  all  shall  be  restored.     These  naked  shoots, 

Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 

Makes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes, 

Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 

And  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread, 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have 

lost. 

Then  each,  in  its  peculiar  honors  clad, 
Shall  publish,  even  to  the  distant  eye, 
Its  family  and  tribe.     Laburnum,  rich 
In  streaming  gold ;  syringa,  ivory  pure  ; 
The  scentless  and  the  scented  rose  ;  this  red, 
And  of  an  humbler  growth,  the  other  tall, 
And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 
Of  neighboring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew, 
Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf, 
That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave ; 
The  lilac,  various  in  array,  now  white, 
Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 
With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if 
Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolved 
Which  hue  she  most  approved,  she  chose  them  all ; 
Copious  of  flowers  the  woodbine,  pale  and  wan, 
But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks 
With  never  cloying  odors,  early  and  late  ; 
Hypericum  all  bloom,  so  thick  a  swarm 
Of  flowers,  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods, 


82  A    WINTER    THOUGHT. 

That  scarce  a  leaf  appears  ;  mezereon  too, 
Though  leafless,  well  attired,  and  thick  beset 
\Vilh  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray ; 
Althaea  with  the  purple  eye  ;  the  broom, 
Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloyed, 
Her  blossoms ;  and  luxuriant  above  all 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnished  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more 
The  bright  profusion  of  her  scattered  stars. 
These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be  in  their  day ; 
And  all  this  uniform  uncolored  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load, 
And  flush  into  variety  again. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 
The  Task. 


A    WINTER   THOUGHT. 

IN  bare,  gnarled  arms  the  gaunt  trees  take 
The  biting  winds  with  many  a  shiver,  — 
Keen  winds  that  sweep  the  land,  and  shake 
In  frozen  furrows  all  the  smooth  sweet  bosom  of  the 
river. 

Bare  is  the  land  of  bird  and  flower. 

O  Mother  Earth !  art  thou  forsaken 
In  this  thy  darkest,  dreariest  hour  ? 
Have   birds   and   flowers,  with   summer  airs,  their 
flight  unkindly  taken  ? 


THE    WINTER    WIND.  83 

And  but  for  this,  that  in  the  breast 

Of  winter  the  young  spring  is  sleeping, 
The  briefest  insect  life  were  best, 
And  our  life  day  by  day  were  but  a  time  for  hopeless 
weeping. 

But  Memory,  smiling  through  her  tears, 

And  wild  Hope,  whisper  unto  me, 
"  Day  crowns  the  springs  of  all  the  years, 
And  glad  as  thy  springs  were  of   old,  thy  springs 
again  shall  be." 

Then  fast  by  violet-broidered  brims 

The  frozen  river  seems  to  run, 
The  trees  put  forth  their  leafy  limbs 
To  catch  the  fragrance  of  the  breeze,  the  warmth  of 
May-day  sun. 

MARTIN  J.  GRIFFIN. 


THE    WINTER    WIND. 

DOWN  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 

From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old ; 
On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 

It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek ; 
It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 


84          A    VISION  OF  SPRING  IN  WINTER. 

A    VISION  OF  SPRING  IN  WINTER. 

O  TENDER  time  that  love  thinks  long  to  see, 
Sweet  foot  of  spring  that  with  her  footfall  sows 
Late  snow-like  flowery  leavings  of  the  snows, 

Be  not  too  long  irresolute  to  be ! 

0  mother-month,  where  have  they  hidden  thee  ? 
Out  of  the  pale  time  of  the  flowerless  rose, 

1  reach  my  heart  out  toward  the  springtime  lands. 
I  stretch  my  spirit  forth  to  the  fair  hours, 

The  purplest  of  the  prime  ; 
I  lean  my  soul  down  over  them,  with  hands 

Made  wide  to  take  the  ghostly  growths  of  flowers  ; 
I  send  my  love  back  to  the  lovely  time. 

Where  has  the  greenwood  hid  thy  gracious  head  ? 
Veiled  with  what  visions  while   the   gray  world 

grieves, 

Or  muffled  with  what  shadows  of  green  leaves, 
With  warm  intangible  green  shadows  spread 
To  sweeten  the  sweet  twilight  for  thy  bed  ? 

What  sleep  enchants  thee  ?  what  delight  deceives  ? 
Where  the  deep  dreamlike  dew  before  the  dawn 
Feels  not  the  fingers  of  the  sunlight  yet 

Its  silver  web  unweave, 
Thy  footless  ghost  on  some  unfooted  lawn 
Whose  air  the  unrisen  sunbeams  fear  to  fret 
Lives  a  ghost's  life  of  daylong  dawn  and  eve. 

Sunrise  it  sees  not,  neither  set  of  star, 
Large  nightfall,  nor  imperial  plenilune, 


A    VISION  OF  SPRING  IN  WINTER.          85 

Nor  strong  sweet  shape  of  the  full-breasted  noon ; 
But  where  the  silver-sandaled  shadows  are, 
Too  soft  for  arrows  of  the  sun  to  mar, 

Moves  with  the  mild  gait  of  an  ungrown  moon  : 
Hard  overhead  the  half-lit  crescent  swims, 

The  tender-colored  night  draws  hardly  breath, 

The  light  is  listening; 
They  watch  the  dawn  of  slender-shapen  limbs, 

Virginal,  born  again  of  doubtful  death, 
Chill  foster-father  of  the  weanling  spring. 

As  sweet  desire  of  day  before  the  day, 

As  dreams  of  love  before  the  true  love  born, 
From  the  outer  edge  of  winter  overworn 

The  ghost  arisen  of  May  before  the  May 

Takes  through  dim  air  her  unawakened  way, 
The  gracious  ghost  of  morning  risen  ere  morn. 

With  little  unblown  breasts  and  child-eyed  looks 
Following,  the  very  maid,  the  girl-child  spring, 
Lifts  windward  her  bright  boughs, 

Dips  her  light  feet  in  warm  and  moving  brooks, 
And  kindles  with  her  own  month's  coloring 
The  fearful  firstlings  of  the  plumeless  boughs. 

I  seek  thee  sleeping,  and  awhile  I  see, 

Fair  face  that  art  not,  how  thy  maiden  breath 
Shall  put  at  last  the  deadly  days  to  death, 
And  fill  the  fields  and  fire  the  woods  with  thee, 
And  seaward  hollows  where  my  feet  would  be 

When  heaven  shall  hear  the  word  that  April  saith 


86          A    VISION  OF  SPRING  IN  WINTER. 

To  change  the  cold  heart  of  the  weary  time, 
To  stir  and  soften  all  the  time  to  tears, 

Tears  joyfuller  than  mirth  ; 

As  even  to  May's  clear  height  the  young  days  climb 
With  feet  not  swifter  than  those  fair  first  years 
Whose  flowers  revive  not  with  thy  flowers  on 
earth. 

I  would  not  bid  thee,  though  I  might,  give  back 
One  good  thing  youth  has  given  and  borne  away : 
I  crave  not  any  comfort  of  the  day 
That  is  not,  nor  on  time's  re-trodden  track 
Would  turn  to  meet  the  white-robed  hours  or  black 

That  long  since  left  me  on  their  mortal  way; 
Nor  light  nor  love  that  has  been,  nor  the  breath 
That  comes  with  morning  from  the  sun  to  be, 

And  sets  light  hope  on  fire  ; 

No  fruit,  no  flower  thought  once  too  fair  for  death, 
No  flower  nor  hour  once  fallen  from  life's  green 

tree, 
No  leaf  once  plucked,  or  once  fulfilled  desire. 

The  morning  song  beneath  the  stars  that  fled 

With  twilight  through  the  moonless  mountain  air, 
While  youth  with  burning  lips  and  wreathless  hair 

Sang  toward  the  sun  that  was  to  crown  his  head, 

Rising ;  the  hopes  that  triumphed  and  fell  dead, 
The   sweet   swift   eyes   and  songs  of   hours  that 
were,  — 

These  may'st  thou  not  give  back  forever ;  these. 


IN  FEBRUARY.  8? 

As  at  the  sea's  heart  all  her  wrecks  lie  waste, 

Lie  deeper  than  the  sea ; 
But  flowers  thou  may'st,  and  winds,  and  hours  of 

ease, 

And  all  its  April  to  the  world  thou  may'st 
Give  back,  and  half  my  April  back  to  me. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


IN  FEBRUARY. 

THE  birds  have  been  singing  to-day 
And  saying :  "  The  spring  is  near ! 
The  sun  is  as  warm  as  in  May, 
And  the  deep  blue  heavens  are  clear." 

The  little  bird  on  the  boughs 

Of  the  sombre  snow-laden  pine 

Thinks  :  "  Where  shall  I  build  me  my  house, 

And  how  shall  I  make  it  fine  ? 

"  For  the  season  of  snow  is  past ; 
The  mild  south  wind  is  on  high ; 
And  the  scent  of  the  spring  is  cast 
From  his  wing  as  he  hurries  by." 

The  little  birds  twitter  and  cheep 

To  their  loves  on  the  leafless  larch : 

But  seven  foot  deep  the  snow-wreaths  sleep, 

And  the  year  hath  not  worn  to  March. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


88         FEBRUARY.  —  THE  FROZEN  RIVER. 


FEBRUARY. 

STILL  lie  the  sheltering  snows,  undimmed  and  white ; 
And  reigns  the  winter's  pregnant  silence,  still : 
No  sign  of  spring,  save  that  the  catkins  fill, 

And  willow  stems  grow  daily  red  and  bright. 

These  are  the  days  when  ancients  held  a  rite 
Of  expiation  for  the  old  year's  ill, 
And  prayer  to  purify  the  new  year's  will : 

Fit  days,  —  ere  yet  the  spring  rains  blur  the  sight, 

Ere  yet  the  bounding  blood  grows  hot  with  haste 
And  dreaming  thoughts  grow  heavy  with  a  greed 

The  ardent  summer's  joy  to  have  and  taste  : 
Fit  days  —  to  take  to  last  year's  losses  heed, 
To  reckon  clear  the  new  life's  sterner  need ; 

Fit  days  —  for  Feast  of  Expiation  placed  ! 

MRS.  HELEN  MARIA  [FISKE]  [HUNT]  JACKSON. 


THE  FROZEN  RIVER. 

DEAD  stream  beneath  the  icy  silent  blocks 
That  motionless  stand  soddening  into  grime, 

Thy  fretted  falls  hang  numb,  frost  pens  the  locks ; 
Dead  river,  when  shall  be  thy  waking  time  ? 

"  Not  dead ;  "  the  river  spoke  and  answered  me, 

"  My  burdened  current,  hidden,  finds  the  sea." 
"  Not  dead,  not  dead ; "  my  heart  replied  at  length, 
"  The  frozen  river  holds  a  hidden  strength." 

MRS.  AUGUSTA  [DAVIES]  WEBSTER. 


WINTER  RAIN.  89 


WINTER  RAIN. 

EVERY  valley  drinks, 

Every  dell  and  hollow ; 
Where  the  kind  rain  sinks  and  sinks, 

Green  of  spring  will  follow. 

Yet  a  lapse  of  weeks 

Buds  will  burst  their  edges, 
Strip  their  wool-coats,  glue-coats,  streaks, 

In  the  woods  and  hedges. 

Weave  a  bower  of  love  , 

For  birds  to  meet  each  other, 

Weave  a  canopy  above 
Nest  and  egg  and  mother. 

But  for  fattening  rain 

We  should  have  no  flowers, 
Never  a  bud  or  leaf  again 

But  for  soaking  showers  ; 

Never  a  mated  bird 

In  the  rocking  tree-tops, 
Never  indeed  a  flock  or  herd 

To  graze  upon  the  lea-crops. 

Lambs  so  woolly  white 

Sheep  the  sun-bright  leas  on, 

They  could  have  no  grass  to  bite 
But  for  rain  in  season. 


90  DIE  DOWN,   O  DISMAL  DAY. 

We  should  find  no  moss 

In  the  shadiest  places, 
Find  no  waving  meadow  grass 

Pied  with  broad-eyed  daisies  : 

But  miles  of  barren  sand, 

With  never  a  son  or  daughter, 

Not  a  lily  on  the  land, 
Or  lily  on  the  water. 

CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI. 


DIE  DOWX,    O  DISMAL  DAY. 

DIE  down,  O  dismal  day !  and  let  me  live. 

And  come,  blue  deeps  !  magnificently  strewn 
With  colored  clouds  —  large,  light  and  fugitive  — 

By  upper  winds  through  pompous  motions  blown. 
Now  it  is  death  in  life,  —  a  vapor  dense 

Creeps  round  my  window  till  I  cannot  see 
The  far  snow-shining  mountains,  and  the  glens 

Shagging  the  mountain-tops.     O  God  !  make  free 
This  barren,  shackled  earth,  so  deadly  cold,  — 

Breathe  gently  forth  Thy  spring,  till  winter  flies 
In  rude  amazement,  fearful  and  yet  bold, 

While  she  performs  her  customed  charities. 
I  weigh  the  loaded  hours  till  life  is  bare : 
O  God !  for  one  clear  day,  a  snowdrop,  and  sweet 

air! 

DAVID  GRAY. 

In  the  Shadows. 


UNDER  THE  SNOWDRIFT.        9! 

E  VANESCENCE. 

OVER  thy  marbles  shines  this  moon 

An  icicle  in  the  sun, 
A  prison  of  fire,  a  palace  of  frost, 

A  miracle-world  begun ; 
All  heaven's  hues  in  its  rondure  pale, 

With  its  exquisite  life  undone  ! 

Child,  thine  was  the  beauty  firm  and  fair, 
Thine,  too,  was  the  changeful  glow  ; 

So  in  the  snow-time  wert  thou  born, 
Our  winter  jewel ;  and  so, 

When  close  on  the  noon,  from  the  natal  height, 

Fell  soft  and  sudden  thy  lone  sweet  light, 
Again  'twas  the  time  of  the  snow. 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY. 


UNDER   THE  SNOWDRIFT, 

UNDER  the  snowdrift  the  blossoms  are  sleeping, 
Dreaming  their  dreams  of  sunshine  and  June, 
Down  in  the  hush  of  their  quiet  they're  keeping 
Thrills  from  the  throstle's  wild  summer-swung  tune. 

Under  the  snowdrifts  what  blossoms  are  sleeping 
Never  to  waken  with  sunshine  or  June  ! 
Do  they  dream  dreams  of  the  eyes  that  are  weeping, 
Under  the  snowdrift,  by  midnight  and  noon  ? 

MRS.  HARRIET  ELIZABETH  [PRESCOTT]  SPOFFORD. 


92  WHEN  SPRINGTIDE   COMES. 


WHEN  SPRINGTIDE   COMES. 

YOUR  change  draws  near,  O  changeless  pall  of  grey ! 

Thou  dull  brown  plain,  ye  silent  woods  and  sere  ! 
Heaven  will  be  blue  and  earth  be  green  and  gay, 

And  bird  and  beast  be  joyous,  and  life  be  dear, 
When  springtide  comes. 

Far  o'er  the  fields  will  sound  the  new  lamb's  bleat ; 

The  lark  will  mount  his  topmost  stair  of  song ; 
From  high  elm-boughs  the  treble  and  tenor  sweet 

Of  thrush  and  blackbird  mingle  all  day  long. 

The  woodbine  branch  will  dart  its  winged  sprays ; 

The  palm-gold  rend  its  casket ;  whorl  by  whorl 
Her  fragile  ladder  will  the  cleaver  raise  ; 

The  arum-scroll  will  silently  unfurl. 

And  soon  from  woody  coverts,  and  beds  of  grass, 
Arrayed  in  vestments  all  of  delicate  hue, 

Meet  for  the  court  of  the  maiden  year,  will  pass 
Troops  of  white  flowers  and  yellow,  pink  and  blue. 

The  shy  windflower  will  nestle  'neath  the  trees ; 

Primrose  and  violet  haunt  the  mossy  bank ; 
Cowslip  and  king-cup  spread  o'er  the    downs    and 
leas, 

Robin  and  lady-smock  o'er  meadows  dank. 

The  limes  will  redden  and  the  oaks  embrown ; 
To  chestnut-buds  a  glistening  dew  will  rise  : 


WHEN  SPRINGTIDE   COMES.  93 

The  feathering  alders  to  the  lake  stoop  down ; 
The  virgin  hazels  ope  their  crimson  eyes. 

And  then,  watch  howso  patiently  we  may, 
A  touch  eludes  our  ken.     The  beechen  tops 

To-day  are  golden,  willow-wands  are  grey ; 
To  morrow  a  green  cloud  enfolds  the  copse. 

And  if  perchance  an  ice-breath  from  the  North, 
Or  marsh-air  tainted  with  the  Orient's  guile, 

Smite  leaf  and  blossom  brought  untimely  forth, 
The  sun  will  rise  and  heal  them  with  a  smile. 

Anon  from  the  south  will  stream  a  gentle  blast 
And  bid  the  jewelled  cones  of  the  larches  flash, 

From  the  rough  oak  woo  tender  shoots,  and  last 
Unclench  the  rigid  fingers  of  the  ash. 

With  field  and  wood  thus  bathed  in  clear  green  light, 
And  ringing  with  bird-voices  night  and  day, 

Dells  hyacinth-blue  and  hedges  hawthorn-white, 
Will  God's  glad  earth  renew  herself  in  May. 

And  ye,  O  torpid  fancy  and  dull  heart ! 

Fettered  and  chilled  in  winter's  prison  so  long, 
Will  not  the  touch  of  sunshine  make  ye  start, 
Put  on  new  plumes  and  tune  a  fresher  song, 
When  springtide  comes  ? 

HENRY  G.  HEWLETT. 


94        THE  SNOWSTORM.— THE  SNOWDROP. 

THE  SNOWSTORM. 

THE  morning  skies  are  dull  and  streaked  with  gray ; 

And  silently  upon  the  frosty  air 

The  scattered  snowflakes  flutter  here  and  there, 
And  skip  and  dance  like  fairies  in  their  play, 
Poising  awhile,  then  frolicking  away. 

Noon  comes,  and  lo  !  the  hills,  that  were  so  bare, 

Are  robed  in  dazzling  garments,  pure  and  fair ; 
The  trees  seem  blossoming  in  some  strange  way ; 
And  when  once  more  the  air  towards  evening  clears, 

And  when  the  fleecy  shower  of  white  subsides, 
A  wondrous  transformation  then  appears  ! 

The  barren  ground  from  sight  so  closely  hides 
Beneath  that  stainless  spread,  it  almost  seems 
As  though  we  gaze  upon  the  land  of  dreams ! 

ERNEST  WARBURTON  SHURTLEFF. 


THE  SNOWDROP. 

THE  first  flower  of  the  infant  year, 

Through  kindred  snows  that  springeth, 
Though  gemmed  with  many  a  frozen  tear, 
Is  to  my  musing  soul  more  dear 

Than  all  that  gay  June  bringeth, 
When  blossomed  brier  and  rosy  flowers 
Look  bright  in  summer  sun  and  showers. 

For  this  lone  child  of  wintry  air, 
Midst  adverse  storms  appearing, 


SAFE.  95 

Resembleth  spirits,  sweet  and  fair, 
Who,  in  this  world  of  grief  and  care, 

Its  bitter  woes  are  cheering ; 
Serene  amidst  its  ceaseless  strife, 
And  smiling  on  the  ills  of  life. 

Like  them  thou  meekly  art,  pale  flower, 

The  tempest's  warfare  meeting  ; 
Although  the  rude  winds  shake  thy  bower, 
And  on  thy  form,  with  ruthless  power, 

The  icy  storms  are  beating, 
Yet,  still  thy  oft  crushed  buds  we  see 
Retain  their  spotless  purity. 

And  their  first  pledge  of  coming  spring, 

The  new-born  year  revealeth, 
Shall  thoughts  of  tenderer  interest  bring 
Than  all  she  from  her  lap  shall  fling, 

When  summer  suns  she  feeleth  ; 
For,  thou  dost  from  her  leafless  breast 
Look  forth  and  promise  all  the  rest. 

AGNES  STRICKLAND. 


SAFE. 

WILD  wintry  wind,  storm  through  the  night, 
Dash  the  black  clouds  against  the  sky, 

Hiss  through  the  billows  seething  white, 
Fling  the  rock-surf  in  spray  on  high. 


96  LAKE   CAYUGA   IN  WINTER. 

Hurl  the  high  seas  on  harbor  bars, 
Madden  them  with  thy  havoc-shriek 

Against  the  crimson  beacon-stars,  — 
Thy  rage  no  more  can  make  me  weak. 

The  ship  rides  safely  in  the  bay, 
The  ship  that  held  my  hope  in  her : 

Whirl  on,  wild  wind,  in  thy  wild  fray, 
We  hear  our  whispers  through  the  stir. 

MRS.  AUGUSTA  [DAVIES]  WEBSTER. 


LAKE   CAYUGA   IN  WINTER. 

THY  cold,  unmoved  face,  severely  fair, 

Responds  no  more  to  the  sun's  loving  glance  ; 

Thy  summer  life  is  chilled  by  winter's  air ; 

The  jealous  frost-king  holds  thee  locked  in  trance. 

Yet  I  have  seen  thee,  on  a  July  day, 

Sparkling  and  flashing  in  the  heat  of  noon, 

Or  stretching  blue  and  sea-like,  far  away, 
'Neath  the  illusion  of  a  summer  moon. 

And  when  the  storms  have  fretted  thee  too  long, 
Have  I  not  seen  thy  white  waves  dash  ashore, 

Voicing  a  wild,  defying  battle-song, 

That  rose  above  the  roused  wind's  angry  roar  ? 

But  now  thou'rt  like  a  thing  without  a  heart, 
White-stretching,  like  the  ice-ghost  of  a  lake  : 


A  PLAQUE   OF  APPLE-BLOOMS.  97 

The  cold  hath  stricken  thee,  even  as  a  dart; 
Thou  art  so  dead  thou  never  canst  awake ! 

But  a  voice  answers,  "  When  the  spring  winds  come, 
And  comes  the  sun  with  his  own  golden  key, 

I  shall  awaken  at  the  gathering  hum 
Of  the  birds  flying  over,  calling  me  !  " 

And  like  the  frozen  lake  is  many  a  heart 

That  seems  fast-locked  in  a  strange,  living  death : 

It  will  awaken  with  a  throbbing  start 

When  blown  upon  by  Love's  sweet  summer  breath ! 
MRS.  LAURA  CATHERINE  [REDDEN]  SEARING. 


ON  RECEIVING  A   PLAQUE  OF  APPLE- 
BLOOMS. 

(IN   WINTER.) 

FOR  me  these  apple-blossoms  bloom, 
Fair  May  flowers  in  this  time  of  snow. 

(How  fragrant  was  the  sweet  perfume 
Of  those  rare  buds  of  long  ago  !) 
You  are  the  saint  that  made  them  blow, 

That  wrought  the  miracle  of  time, 
And,  for  your  pinky  blooms  a-row, 

Accept  this  tiny  flower  of  rhyme. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


98  THE  FROST  INCREASED, 

THE  FROST  INCREASED. 

.  .  .  THE  frost  increased,  and  the  thin  snow 
From  off  the  iron  ground  the  wind  did  blow, 
And  in  the  cold,  dark  stream,  from  either  bank 
The  ice  stretched  forth ;  at  last,  ere  the  sun  sank, 
One  bitter  day,  low  grew  the  clouds  and  dun 
A  little  northward  of  the  setting  sun, 
Wherefrom,  at  nightfall,  sprung  a  furious  blast, 
That  ere  the  middle  of  the  night  was  past, 
Brought  up  the  snow  from  some  untrodden  land. 

So,  'mid  the  many  changes  of  the  night, 
The  silent  snow  fell  till  the  world  was  white, 
And  to  those  southland  folk  entrapped,  forlorn 
The  waking  was  upon  the  morrow  morn. 

Most  pitiless  and  stark  the  winter  grew 
Meanwhile,  beneath  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue, 
And  sun  that  warmed  not,  till  they  nigh  forgot 
The  green  lush  spring,  the  summer  rich  and  hot, 
The  autumn  fragrant  with  slow-ripening  fruit ; 
Till  each  grew  listless,  dull  to  the  heart's  root ; 
For  day  passed  day  and  yet  no  change  they  saw 
In  the  white  sparkling  plain  without  a  flaw, 
No  cloud,  no  change  within  the  sunny  sky, 
Or  in  the  wind,  that  rose  at  noon,  to  die 
Before  the  sunset,  and  no  change  at  all 
In  the  drear  silence  of  the  dead  nightfall. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason. 


THE  FLOWERS   TO   COME.  99 

TIS   THE    WORLD'S   WINTER. 

'Trs  the  world's  winter ; 
Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago. 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

But  spring,  a  new  comer, 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 
Through  and  through, 
Here  and  there, 
Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  filled  with  life  anew. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
Nothing  Will  Die. 


THE  FLOWERS   TO   COME. 

THE  drift  is  in  the  hollows  of  the  hill, 

Yet  primrose  leaves  uncurl  beneath  the  hedge  ; 
Frosts  pierce  the  down,  and  the  north  wind  blows 
chill, 

Yet  snowdrop  spikelets  rim  the  garden  edge. 
Dear  plants  that  will  make  bud  in  coming  spring, 
Ye  were  not  for  one  only  blossoming : 

More  than  one  blossoming  for  all  fair  flowers ; 

And  God  keeps  mine  till  spring  is  somewhere  ours. 
MRS.  AUGUSTA  [DAVIES]  WEBSTER. 


100  ONE  SWALLOW. 


ONE  SWALLOW. 

WE  are  very  glad  to-day  and  lift  our  praises, 

For,  with  eyes  that  looked  out  anxiously, 
While  the  cutting  wind  blew  sharp  against  our  faces, 
This  one  swallow  did  we  see. 

O  thou  blessed  swallow,  matter  not  thou  reach  us 

Travel-faint  and  tired,  with  draggled  plumage  wet ; 
Through  the  winter-awe  thou  comest  now  to  teach  us 
Of  a  spring  we  know  not  yet. 

Yes,  to-day  has  set  us  free  from  that  oppressive 

Going  softly  we  had  kept  so  very  long, 
And  we  loose  the  strain  of  newborn  joy  excessive 
In  a  rain  of  tears  and  song. 

But  "  One  Swallow  does  not  make  a  Summer"  say  ye, 

"  Earth  in  dreary  twilight  lieth  veiled  as  yet ; 
Many  a  weary  wind  must  blow  its  blast  ere  may  ye 
Seek  the  nascent  violet." 

Would  ye   quench  with  that   drear  adage  joy  that 

quickens 

In  a  triumph  through  our  whole  lives  once  again  ; 
Till  the  spirit,  shorn  of  comfort,  quails  and  sickens 
For  your  biting  frost  and  rain  ? 

Nay,  ye  cannot  take  our  holy  joyance  from  us ; 
Nay,  ye  cannot  make  the  anointed  eyesight  dim 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS.  IOI 

Of  the  trustful  eyes  that  waited  God's  good  promise 
Which  they  had  received  of  him. 

Ye  have  only  seen  to-day  one  swallow  flying 

From  the  sunny  southern  land  where  Summer  is  ; 
But  we  know  they  come  in  flights  with  that  undying 
Summer  greater  far  than  this. 

O  the  beauty  and  the  joy  that  passeth  telling ! 

O  the  time  of  singing  birds  that  soon  shall  come, 
When   the   trees   put   forth   their  leaves  of   fairest 
smelling, 

And  the  brooks  no  more  are  dumb. 

O  we  take  the  blessed  guerdon  none  receiveth 
Save  whose  soul  'gainst  doubting's  bitter  breath 

can  prove 

That  sweet  grace  which  all  things  hopeth  and  beliv- 
eth, 

Not  credulity,  but  love. 

EMILY  HENRIETTA  HICKEY. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

I  HEAR  from  many  a  little  throat, 
A  warble  interrupted  long ; 

I  hear  the  robin's  flute-like  note, 
The  bluebird's  slenderer  song. 


1 02  SWO  WDROrS  —  CONSOLA  TION. 

Brown  meadows  and  the  russet  hill, 
Not  yet  the  haunt  of  grazing  herds, 

And  thickets  by  the  glimmering  rill, 
Are  all  alive  with  birds. 

O  choir  of  spring,  why  come  so  soon  ? 

On  leafless  grove  and  herbless  lawn 
Warm  lie  the  yellow  beams  of  noon ; 

Yet  winter  is  not  gone. 

For  frost  shall  sheet  the  pools  again ; 

Again  the  blustering  East  shall  blow, 
Whirl  a  white  tempest  through  the  glen, 

And  load  the  pines  with  snow. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


SNOWDROPS—  CONSOLA  TION. 

A  SMALL  bird  twitters  on  a  leafless  spray, 

Across  the  snow-waste  breaks  a  gleam  of  gold : 
What  token  can  I  give  my  friend  to-day 

But  February  blossoms,  pure  and  cold  ? 
Frail  gifts  from  Nature's  half-reluctant  hand, 

What  if  he  deems  them  meaningless  and  pale  ? 
I  see  the  signs  of  spring  about  the  land, 

I  hear  in  dreams  the  cuckoo's  summer  tale  ; 
And  these  chill  snowdrops,  fresh  from  wintry  bowers, 
Are  the  forerunners  of  a  world  of  flowers. 

SARAH  DOUDNEY. 


ROBBER  BLUE  BACK.  1 03 

ROBBER  BLUEBACK. 

THOUGH  it  lacks  two  months  of  May 

Frosts  have  nipped  a  genial  thaw 
And  the  melted  snow  is  thin 

Crisp  and  harsh  to  Renard's  claw. 
White  are  curves  where  paths  have  been 

Winding  through  the  ruddy  swamp, 
Pensive-gray  the  circling  trees 

Etch  the  sky  in  gentle  pomp. 
Yet  is  spring  within  the  breeze, 

Gay  in  heart  of  yonder  fowl 

Screaming  near  a  brooding  owl 
His  jay — jay — jay  ! 

Wicked  dandy,  have  you  come 

Dressed  in  suit  of  brightest  blue 
Long  among  our  hills  to  roam 

Till  the  woods  your  presence  rue  ? 
Malice  sure  your  notes  betray 
While  you  flirt  about  each  gray 

Brushy  top  and  chestnut  crest 
Jotting  down  in  thievish  brain 

Just  the  lay  of  every  nest ; 
So  when  summer's  here  again  — 

Suck  the  eggs  —  away  you  fly 

With  the  parent-frighting  cry 
Of  jay  — jay  — jay  ! 

Ah  the  dainty  rascal  jay  ! 

Now's  the  time  abroad  to  fling 


104  MIDNIGHT. 

With  the  heart  and  limbs  of  youth 
Ere  the  fickle  minded  spring 

All  the  land  with  lakes  endu'th  ! 

Now  across  the  oak-swamp  race 

Following  swift  his  airy  trace  ; 

Hound  him  down  the  icy  path 

Till  he  chatters  full  of  wrath ; 
Chase  him  past  the  helpless  owl 
And  loudly  mock  the  coward  fowl 
With  jay  — jay  — jay  / 

CUAKI.KS  DE  KAY. 


MIDNIGHT. 

BENEATH  a  midnight  moon  a  world  of  snow 

Sleeps  in  a  deathly  calm.     A  wistful  breeze 

Searches  in  vain  among  the  lifeless  trees 
For  the  soft  whisper  it  was  wont  to  know. 
The  last  sere  leaf  was  buried  long  ago, 

The  last  bird  far  away  o'er  summer  seas. 

Return,  O  wind,  to  the  forsaken  leas, 
Nor  grieve  the  branches  with  thy  wailings  low ! 
And  where  art  thou,  my  River !  at  my  feet 

Thou  liest  breathless,  on  a  shrouded  bed. 
A  sculptured  current,  all  thy  voices  sweet 

In  cold  and  pulseless  slumber  quieted. 
No  ?  still  thy  great  heart  throbs  with  sluggish  beat  ? 

So  would  my  life  go  on  if  song  were  dead ! 

MRS.  FRANCES  [LAUGHTON]  MACE. 


UNDER  THE  SNOWS.  — ICE.  105 

UNDER  THE  SNOWS. 

UNDER  the  drifted  snows,  with  weeping  and  holy 
rite, 

For  a  little  maid's  repose  let  the  lonely  bed  be 
dight. 

Cold  is  the  cradle  cover  our  pitiful  hands  fold  over 

The  heart  that  had  won  repose  or  ever  it  knew  de- 
light. 

High  are  the  heavens  and  steep  to  us  who  would 

enter  in 
By  the  fasts   that   our  faint   hearts   keep   and   the 

thorn-set  crowns  we  win. 
Sweetly  the  child   awaketh,  brightly  the   day-dawn 

breaketh 
On  the  eyes  that  fell  asleep  or  ever  they  looked  on 

sin. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 


ICE. 

THE  ice  that  binds  the  brooklet 

Is  thinner  than  you  think  ; 
The  sun  shines  warm  upon  it, 

And  sooner  than  you  think, 
Gurgling,  sweet  it  answers, 

"  Come,  dry  lips,  and  drink  !  " 
GEORGE  WASHINGTON  WRIGHT  HOUGHTON. 


IO6  THE  MELTING  OF  THE  SNOW. 

THE  MELTING  OF  THE  SNOW. 

A  SOUND  of  streamlets  flowing,  flowing  ; 

A  cry  of  winds  so  bleakly  blowing ; 

A  stir,  a  tumult  ever  growing  ; 

Deep  night ;  and  the  Great  Snow  was  going. 

Underneath  her  death-shroud  thick, 

Like  a  body  buried  quick, 

Heaved  the  Earth,  and  thrusting  hands 

Cracked  the  ice  and  brake  her  bands. 

Heaven,  with  face  of  watery  woe, 

Watched  the  resurrection  grow. 

All  the  night,  bent  to  be  free, 

In  a  sickening  agony, 

Struggled  Earth.     With  silent  tread 

From  his  cold  seat  at  her  head 

Rose  the  Frost,  and  northward  stole 

To  his  cavern  near  the  pole. 

When  the  bloodshot  eyes  of  Morn 

Opened  in  the  east  forlorn, 

'Twas  a  dreary  sight  to  see 

Blotted  waste  and  water)'  lea, 

All  the  beautiful  white  plains 

Blurred  with  blackening  seams  and  stains, 

All  the  sides  of  every  hill 

Scarred  with  thaw  and  dripping  chill, 

All  the  cold  sky  scowling  black 

O'er  the  soaking  country  track ; 

There's  a  sobbing  everywhere 

In  the  miserable  air, 


THE  MELTING   OF  THE  SNOW.  IO/ 

And  a  thick  fog  brooding  low 
O'er  the  black  trail  of  the  snow ; 
While  the  Earth,  amid  the  gloom 
Still  half  buried  in  her  tomb, 
Swooning  lay,  and  could  not  rise, 
With  dark  film  upon  her  eyes. 

So  the  snow  had  nearly  fled, 
And  upon  her  dying  bed 
Earth  was  quickening  ;  damp  and  chill 
Streamed  the  fog  on  vale  and  hill. 
Like  a  shiny  crocodile 
Weltering  on  banks  o'  Nile, 
Everywhere,  with  muddy  maw, 
Crawled  the  miserable  Thaw. 
On  the  pond  and  on  the  stream 
Loosened  lights  began  to  gleam, 
And  before  the  snow  could  fleet 
Drizzly  rains  began  to  beat. 

Here  and  there  upon  the  plain, 
'Mid  the  pools  of  thaw  and  rain, 
Lingered  in  the  dismal  light 
Patches  of  unmelted  white. 
As  these  melted,  very  slowly, 
In  a  quiet  melancholy, 
Vacant  gleams  o'  the  clouded  blue 
Through  the  dismal  daylight  flew, 
And  the  wind,  with  a  shrill  clang, 
Went  into  the  west,  and  sang. 


1 08  EXPECTA  TION. 

A  sound  of  waters  ever  flowing ; 
A  stir,  a  tumult,  ever  growing ; 
A  gleam  o'  the  blue,  a  west  wind  blowing ; 
Warmth,  and  the  last  snow  wreath  was  going. 
ROBERT  WILLIAMS  BUCHANAN. 
White  Rose  and  Red. 


EXPECTA  TION. 

(RONDEAU.) 

WHEN  flower-time  comes  and  all  the  woods  are  gay, 
When  linnets  chirrup  and  the  soft  winds  blow, 
Adown  the  winding  river  I  will  row, 
And  watch  the  merry  maidens  tossing  hay, 
And  troops  of  children  shouting  in  their  play, 

And  with  my  thin  oars  flout  the  fallen  snow 
Of  heavy  hawthorn-blossom  as  I  go  : 
And  shall  I  see  my  love  at  full  of  day 

When  flower-time  comes  ? 

Ah,  yes  !  for  by  the  border  of  the  stream 
She  binds  red  roses  to  a  trim  alcove, 
And  I  shall  fade  into  her  summer-dream 
Of  musing  upon  love,  —  nay,  even  seem 
To  be  myself  the  very  god  of  love 

When  flower-time  comes  ! 

EDMUND  WILLIAM  GOSSE. 


WARM  DA  Y  NEAR  THE  CLOSE  OF  WINTER.      ICQ 


ON  A    WARM  DA  Y  NEAR   THE   CLOSE   OF 
WINTER. 

How  soft  this  southern  gale  !     Its  freshness  falls 

Upon  my  forehead  like  the  light,  warm  touch 

Of  the  dew-lips  of  springtime.     It  has  been 

In  the  far  clime  of  blossoms,  and  it  bears 

A  message  of  affection  to  our  woods, 

And  vales  and  streams.     Spring,  with  her  rose-air 

breath, 

Is  coming  now  upon  her  rainbow  wing, 
To  waken  the  green  earth  to  life  and  joy, 
And  the  free  air  to  music.     She  will  weave 
Her  violet  throne  upon  a  thin,  white  cloud, 
Soft  floating  in  the  middle-air,  and  call 
Upon  her  thousand  votaries  to  hail 
Her  coming  with  a  song  and  smile.     The  waves 
Will  shout  from  rock  and  mountain,  the  blue  lakes 
Will  tremble  like  the  plumage  of  a  dove 
In  the  new  gush  of  sunlight,  and  the  birds 
Will  breathe  their  loves  in  music,  and  float  off, 
A  shower  of  blossoms,  in  the  atmosphere. 
The  young,  gay  leaves  will  weave  their  twilight  hues 
In  grove  and  forest ;  'mid  yon  budding  isles 
The  sea  will  sleep  like  a  Circassian  bride 
Decked  with  her  richest  jewelry  ;  the  sky 
Will  take  a  bluer  tint,  and  seem  to  arch 
More  high  and  pure  and  beautiful  above, 
As  if  to  let  the  spirit  go  abroad 
In  ampler  journey  ings  ;  and  a  deep  spell 


1 1 0  EXPECTA  TION. 

Of  life  and  bliss  will,  like  a  blessing,  rest 
Upon  the  waking  heart,  and  bid  it  float 
Like  a  young  flower  upon  the  buoyant  wave 
Of  beautiful  imaginings  of  Heaven. 

GEORGE  DENNISON  PRENTICE. 


EXPECTATION. 

WIDE  wintry  fields  left  bare  to  skies  unkind, 

Brown  stubble,  yellow  stream  and  thin  gray  grass, 
Soiled  streaks  of  snow  on  yonder  hillside  pass, 

A  landscape  colorless,  a  wet  chill  wind, 

Clear  tinkle  of  slow-dropping  icicles, 

Full-throated    brooks    whose     querulous     brawling 

swells 
To  noise  unwonted,  roughened  with  the  thaw. 

Thick  February  mists  cling  heavily 

To  the  dead  earth  and  to  each  leafless  tree, 
And  closer  down  upon  the  hilltops  draw, 

Dull  forecasts  there  of  bright,  sure-coming  spring ; 
Yet  the  heart  gathers  hope  and  strange  delight 
From  this  the  dear,  unlovely,  wished-for  sight 

Of  leaden-misted  twilights  lengthening. 

Beyond  the  moist,  mirk  curtain  weighing  down, 
From  dark  gray  heaven  unto  dark  earth  brown, 

Youth  sees  afar,  with  close-drawn  eyelids,  May, 
Long  vistas  of  all  beauty,  golden  dells, 
And  clouds  wherein  the  very  sunshine  dwells ; 

And  that  rich  promise  shortens  the  short  day. 

EMMA  LAZARUS. 


AFTER    THE    WINTER  RAIN.  Ill 


THE    WINTER  RAIN. 

THE  rain  comes  down,  it  comes  without  our  call, 

Each  pattering  drop  knows  well  its  destined  place, 
And  soon  the  fields  whereon  the  blessings  fall 

Shall  change  their  frosty  look  for  Spring's  sweet 

face ; 
So  fall  the  words  thy  Holy  Spirit  sends, 

Upon  the  heart  where  Winter's  robe  is  flung ; 
They  shall  go  forth  as  certain  of  their  ends, 

As  the  wet  drops  from  out  thy  vapors  wrung : 
Spring  will  not  tarry,  though  more  late  its  rose 

Shall  bud  and  bloom  upon  the  sinful  heart ; 
Yet  when  it  buds,  forever  there  it  blows, 

And  hears  no  Winter  bid  its  bloom  depart ; 
It   strengthens   with   his   storms,  and   grows   more 

bright 
When  o'er  the  earth  is  cast  his  mantle  white. 

JONES  VERY. 


AFTER    THE    WINTER  RAIN. 

AFTER  the  winter  rain, 

Sing,  robin  !  sing,  swallow  ! 

Grasses  are  in  the  lane, 

Buds  and  flowers  will  follow. 

Woods  shall  ring,  blithe  and  gay, 
With  bird-  trill  and  twitter, 


112  WAITING. 

Though  the  skies  weep  to-day 
And  the  winds  are  bitter. 

Though  deep  call  unto  deep 

As  calls  the  thunder, 
And  white  the  billows  leap 

The  tempest  under ; 

Softly  the  waves  shall  come 
Up  the  long,  bright  beaches, 

With  dainty  flowers  of  foam 
And  tenderest  speeches. 

After  the  wintry  pain, 

And  the  long,  long  sorrow, 
Sing,  heart !  for  thee  again 

Joy  comes  with  the  morrow. 

INA  DONNA  COOLBRITH. 


WAITING. 

THE  sunbeams  slant  along  the  snow; 

It  is  a  day  of  days  : 
O  magic  of  those  lands  below, 

How  long  the  spring  delays  ! 
Hast  thou  detained  her  on  the  shore 
Where  bloom  Love's  lilies  ever  more  ? 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


THE  LAST  SNOW  OF  WINTER.  113 

THE   GRASSHOPPER  AND   THE   CRICKET. 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead. 

That  is  the  grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury  —  he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half-lost, 

The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


THE  LAST  SNOW  OF  WINTER. 

SOFT  snow  still  rests  within  this  wayside  cleft, 
Veiling  the  primrose  buds  not  yet  unfurled ; 

Last  trace  of  dreary  winter,  idly  left 

On  beds  of  moss,  and  sere  leaves  crisply  curled ; 

Why  does  it  linger  while  the  violets  blow, 

And  sweet  things  grow  ? 

A  relic  of  long  nights  and  weary  days, 

When  all  fair  things  were  hidden  from  my  sight ; 


114  FEBRUARY  THAW. 

A  chill  reminder  of  those  mournful  ways 

I  traversed  when  the  fields  were  cold  and  white ; 
My  life  was  dim,  my  hopes  lay  still  and  low 

Beneath  the  snow. 

Now  spring  is  coming,  and  my  buried  love 

Breaks  fresh  and  strong  and  living  through  the 

sod  ; 
The  lark  sings  loudly  in  the  blue  above, 

The  budding  earth  must  magnify  her  God ; 
Let  the  old  sorrows  and  old  errors  go 

With  the  last  snow. 

SARAH  DOUDNEY. 


FEBRUARY  THAW. 

THE  change  has  come  at  last,  and  from  the  west 
Drives  on  the  wind,  and  gives  the  clouds  no  rest, 
And  ruffles  up  the  water  thin  that  lies 
Over  the  surface  of  the  thawing  ice  ; 
Sunrise  and  sunset  with  no  glorious  show 
Are  seen,  as  late  they  were  across  the  snow ; 
The  wet-lipped  west  wind  chilleth  to  the  bone 
More  than  the  light  and  flickering  east  hath  done. 
More  soberly  the  earth's  fresh  hope  begins, 
Nor  stays  to  think  of  what  each  new  day  wins  : 
And  still  it  seems  to  bid  us  turn  away 
From  this  chill  thaw  to  dream  of  blossomed  May. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 


FEBRUAR  Y.  —  SNO  W-BLOOM.  1 1 5 

FEBRUARY. 

THE  time  when  skies  are  free  from  cloud, 
Though  still  the  robin  whistles  loud 

In  the  bare  garden  croft, 
The  catkin,  on  the  hazel  tree, 
Mistakes  for  summer  flower  the  bee, 

And  round  it  hovers  oft. 

Winter's  last  sigh,  from  frozen  north, 
Withers  the  flower  that  ventures  forth  ; 

And  there  is  wanting  still 
The  unseen  warmth,  the  mellow  note 
Of  the  wild  bird  with  dappled  coat, 

Though  faster  flows  the  rill. 

When,  from  his  winter  home,  the  snake 
Creeps  stealthy  through  the  withered  brake, 

And  thoughtless  of  the  past, 
The  young  leaves  open  overhead, 
Though  still  their  fathers,  sere  and  dead, 

Are  hurried  by  the  blast. 

GEORGE  WALTER  THORNBURY. 


SNOW-BLOOM. 

WHERE  does  the  snow  go, 
So  white  on  the  ground  ? 

Under  May's  azure 
No  flake  can  be  found. 


Il6  LATE  FEBRUARY. 

Look  into  the  lily 

Some  sweet  summer  hour  ; 

There  blooms  the  snow 
In  the  heart  of  the  flower. 

Where  does  the  love  go, 

Frozen  to  grief  ? 
Along  the  heart's  fibres 

Its  cold  thrill  is  brief. 
The  snowfall  of  sorrow 

Turns  not  to  dry  dust ; 
It  lives  in  white  blossoms 

Of  patience  and  trust. 

LUCY  LARCOM. 


LATE  FEBRUARY. 

LATE  February  days ;  and  now,  at  last, 

Might  you  have  thought  that  winter's  woe  was  past ; 

So  fair  the  sky  was,  and  so  soft  the  air. 

The  happy  birds  were  hurrying  here  and  there, 

As  something  soon  would  happen.     Reddened  now 

The  hedges,  and  in  gardens  many  a  bough 

Was  overbold  of  buds.     Sweet  days,  indeed, 

Although  past  road  and  bridge,  through  wood  and 

mead, 

Swift  ran  the  brown  stream,  swirling  by  the  grass, 
And  in  the  hillside  hollows  snow  yet  was. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 


VOID  SPRING.  — LATE    WINTER.  1 1/ 

VOID  SPRING. 

THIS  placid  day,  here  at  the  Winter's  end, 
This  day  of  temperate  sunshine  and  mild  air, 
Filled  with  high  promise  of  glad  things  and  fair, 

Is  unto  me  like  some  dear,  chosen  friend 

Loved  well  by  twain  whose  two  lives  might  not  blend 
Because    Death    called   the   worshipped   woman 

where 
Is  no  delight  in  love  or  love's  sweet  care, 

Where  neither  prayers  nor  songs  nor  sighs  ascend. 

If  any  comfort  to  the  lover's  heart 

Yields  the  dear  friend  who  holds  so  much  of  her 

At  whose  light  footfall  he  no  more  shall  start, 

Such  comfort  to  my  soul  these  hours  impart ; 
I  greet  of  Spring  the  Spring-like  harbinger, 
Knowing  with  me  Spring's  self  may  not  confer. 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 


LATE    WINTER. 

ALL  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their  lair ; 
The  bees  are  stirring ;  birds  are  on  the  wing : 
And  Winter  shuddering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Il8  O  SOFT  SPRING  AIRS. 

O  SOFT  SPRING  AIRS. 

COME  up,  come  up,  O  soft  spring  airs, 
Come  from  your  silver  shining  seas, 

Where  all  day  long  you  toss  the  wave 
About  the  low  and  palm-plumed  keys ! 

Forsake  the  spicy  lemon  groves, 

The  balms  and  blisses  of  the  south, 

And  blow  across  the  longing  land 
The  breath  of  your  delicious  mouth. 

Come  from  the  almond  bough  you  stir, 
The  myrtle  thicket  where  you  sigh ; 

Oh,  leave  the  nightingale,  for  here 
The  robin  whistles  far  and  nigh ! 

For  here  the  violet  in  the  wood 

Thrills  with  the  fulness  you  shall  take, 

And  wrapped  away  from  life  and  love 

The  wildrose  dreams,  and  fain  would  wake. 

For  here  in  reed  and  rush  and  grass, 

And  tiptoe  in  the  dusk  and  dew, 
Each  sod  of  the  brown  earth  aspires 

To  meet  the  sun,  the  sun  and  you. 

Then  come,  O  fresh  spring  airs,  once  more 

Create  the  old  delightful  things, 
And  woo  the  frozen  world  again 

With  hints  of  heaven  upon  your  wings. 

MRS.  HARRIET  ELIZABETH  [PRESCOTT]  SPOFFORD. 


FAREWELL  AND  HAIL,  119 

FAREWELL  AND  HAIL. 

FAREWELL  to  ceaseless  snowing 

And  winter  garbed  in  gray  ! 
Too  long  his  chains  have  bound  us, 
We'll  fling  them  from  around  us 
And  gleeful  hail  his  going 

With  ringing  roundelay : 
Farewell  to  ceaseless  snowing 

And  winter  garbed  in  gray ! 

Away  with  pallid  pining 

And  sorrowing  that's  vain  ! 
Soon  skies  will  smile  above  us 
And  tender  lilies  love  us, 
And  warmer  suns  be  shining 

Upon  the  amber  grain : 
Away  with  pallid  pining 

And  sorrowing  that's  vain  ! 

We'll  dream  that  pain  is  over 

And  grief  that  wastes  and  wears ; 

We'll  roam  the  fields  with  Dian, 

Or  hunt  with  bold  Orion, 

Or  play  the  reckless  rover 
Where  quivered  Cupid  fares  : 

We'll  dream  that  pain  is  over 
And  grief  that  wastes  and  wears ! 

We'll  lie  amid  the  rushes 
And  tune  a  pipe  with  Pan ; 


120  V ENVOI. 

We'll  sport  with  fays  and  fairies, 
Whose  green-embowered  lair  is 
Where  thicket-loving  thrushes 

Make  melody  for  man  : 
We'll  lie  amid  the  rushes 

And  tune  a  pipe  with  Pan ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


VENVOI. 

As  some  dear  friend  to  other  climes  departing, 
Holding  the  hands  of  one  he  loveth  well, 

Looks  in  his  eyes  while  silent  tears  are  starting, 
And  without  words  they  breathe  a  mute  farewell, 

So  ere  the  Spring  across  the  mountains  flying 
Wakes  the  gray  earth  from  silence  and  repose, 

Let  us  draw  near  the  hoary  monarch  dying, 
And  bid  good-bye  to  Winter  ere  he  goes. 

Think  when  he  came,  his  royal  robes  around  him, 
Grand  in  his  strength  and  glorious  in  his  might, 

Minstrel  and  bard  with  song  and  welcome  crowned 

him, 
And  shall  he  go  without  a  word  to-night  ? 

Then  was  he  strange,  —  no  single  grief  or  pleasure 
Bound  to  our  lives  his  presence  like  a  spell ; 

Now,  when  he  holds  our  memory's  dearest  treasure, 
Shall  we  forget  to  bless  and  say  farewell  ? 


V ENVOI.  121 

Nay  !  for  though  fast  the  Future's  ties  may  bind  us, 
Fair  with  the  light  her  witcheries  may  cast, 

She  cannot  hide  the  tender  gloom  behind  us, 
She  cannot  hush  the  whispers  of  the  Past. 

Yet  as  we  bend  to  pluck  the  opening  flowers, 
We'll  think  of  one,  though  faded,  all  more  dear, 

And  while  we  touch  glad  chords  in  joyous  hours, 
Some  broken  echo  sweeter  still  we  hear. 

For  in  life's  paths  of  honor  and  of  duty 

Each  day  fulfills  the  promise  last, 
He  best  may  hope  to  win  the  Future's  beauty, 

Who  best  has  kept  the  treasures  of  the  Past. 

So  ere  the  Spring  across  the  mountains  flying 
Wakes  the  grim  earth  from  silence  and  repose, 

Let  us  draw  near  the  hoary  monarch  dying, 
And  say  farewell  to  Winter  ere  he  goes. 

MRS.  MARY  ELIZABETH  [MCGRATH]  BLAKE. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PACK 

A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 12 

After  the  winter  rain 1 1 1 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.  Slugs  leave  their  lair  .  .117 
And  then  the  snows  came,  and  the  squirrel  slept  .  5 

Around,  above  the  world  of  snow 8 

A  small  bird  twitters  on  a  leafless  spray  .  .  .  102 
As  one  who  ere  his  manly  frame  be  knit  ....  6 
A  sound  of  streamlets  flowing,  flowing  .  .  .  106 
As  rail  tracks  shorten  in  the  cold  .  .  .  .56 

As  some  dear  friend  to  other  climes  departing     .        .          120 

Awake,  awake,  O  gracious  heart 4/3 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love      .        .        .  13 

A  winter  day  1  the  feather-silent  snow       .        .        .        .11 

Bare  and  sunshiny,  bright  and  bleak     .        .        .        .  14 

Beneath  a  midnight  moon  a  world  of  snow  .  .  .104 
Blue  starry  skies;  hills  dreaming  in  their  snows  .  .  10 

Came  cold  February,  sitting       .        .  .        .        .16 

Come  up,  come  up,  O  soft  spring  airs  .         .        .         .          118 

Darkness  succeeds  to  twilight 48 

Dead  streams  beneath  the  icy  silent  blocks  ...  88 

Die  down,  O  dismal  day !  and  let  me  live          ...  90 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore        ....  78 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak        .  83 


1 24  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PACK 

Each  shining  snowflake  lets  a  shadow  fall        ...  37 

Every  valley  drinks 89 

Fair  Maid  of  February!  —  drop  of  snow.        ...  36 

Farewell  to  ceaseless  snowing       .        .        .        .        .  119 

February,  a  form 4 

For  me  there  is  no  rarer  thing       .....  xxvi 

For  me  these  apple-blossoms  bloom 97 

From  the  sad  eaves  the  drip-drop  of  the  rain       .        .  66 

Gold-eyed  as  the  shore-flower  shelterless  .        .        .        .15 

Harper  old,  a  love-song  glad         .....  35 
Hear  the  sledges  with  their  bells       .        .        .        .        .69 

Hence,  rude  Winter !  crabbed  old  fellow      ...  5 

How  calm,  how  solemn,  how  sublime  the  scene        .        .  65 

How  pale  and  weak  becomes  the  lamp  of  day      .        .  *•  7 

How  soft  this  southern  gale !     Its  freshness  falls     .        .  109 

I  am  lustration ;  and  the  sea  is  mine     ....  2 

I  chased  the  maid  with  rapid  feet 18 

I  hear  from  many  a  little  throat 101 

I  know  him,  February's  thrush 40 

I  look  from  my  lonely  window 29 

In  bare,  gnarled  arms  the  gaunt  trees  take       ...  82 

In  beauty  perfected,  with  lavish  grace  ....  13 
In  the  late  winter,  when  the  breath  of  spring  .        .        -75 

In  the  rosy  light  trills  the  gay  swallow ....  79 

I  saw  a  cloud  at  set  of  sun 16 

I  send  a  sign  of  love ;  the  shower  sends       ...  46 

I  send  thee  pansies  while  the  year  is  young  59 

I  stand  where  in  the  summer  I  have  stood  ...  70 

I  thought  the  world  was  cold  in  death  39 

It  was  a  winter  such  as  when  birds  die         ...  55 

I  went  to  look  for  roses     ...                       .        .  18 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  12$ 

PAGE 

Late  February  days ;  and  now,  at  last  .        .        .        .  116 

Late  lies  the  wintry  sun  a-bed    ......  57 

Like  mimic  meteors  the  snow 47 

Like  some  immortal  heathen  thing    .....  3 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth 73 

Lone  Flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows,  and  white  as  they.  74 

My  Effie,  if  I  take  you  so 69 

Noon,  —  and  the  north-west  sweeps  the  empty  road         .  20 

No  summer  sunset  afterglow          .....  19 

O'er  the  wide  waste  of  bajrren,  bloomless  moors       .         .  17 

O  full  of  Faith  1     The  Earth  is  rock,  —  the  Heaven    .  75 
Oh !    I  wish  I  were   a   tiny  browny  bird  from   out   the 

earth 50 

O  lonely  day !     No  sounds  are  heard         ....  67 

O  melancholy  bird,  a  winter's  day          ....  64 

O  my  roses,  lying  underneath  the  snow     ....  7 

On  the  wind  in  February 65 

O  tender  time  that  love  thinks  long  to  see         ...  84 

Over  thy  marble  shines  this  moon         ....  91 

O  weary  winds  !     O  winds  that  wail 9 

O  winter !  thou  art  not  that  haggard  Lear    ...  4 

O  winter  !  wilt  thou  never,  never  go 33 

O  winter  winds,  your  mournful  roar      .        .        .        .  21 

Rain — hail  —  sleet — snow  —  But  in  my  East .        .        .  68 

Shall  I  desire 30 

Sleep,  baby  mine.     The  failing  light  is  low       ...  26 
Slowly,  with  shaking  staff  and  snowy  stole  .        .       Title-page 

Snow  o'er  the  darkening  moorlands  .         ....  28 

Soft  snow  still  rests  within  this  wayside  cleft        .        .  113 

Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray     ....  24 

Still  lie  the  sheltering  snows,  undimmed  and  white      .  88 


1 26  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Summer  is  a  glorious  season 22 

Sweet  flower !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem          .  2 

The  air  is  white  with  snowflakes  clinging          ...  27 

The  birds  have  been  singing  to-day        ....  87 

The  change  has  come  at  last,  and  from  the  west       .        .114 

The  clouds  are  gathering  slowly ;  dark  and  vast  .         .  77 

The  cold  winds  rave  on  the  icy  river         ....  68 

The  day  is  ending  ........  71 

The  day,  the  only  day  returns    ......  44 

The  drift  is  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills  ....  99 

The  earth  is  wrapped  in  one  white  dream  of  snow  .        .  31 

The  first  flower  of  the  infant  year          ....  94 

The  frost  increased,  and  the  thin  snow      ....  98 

The  golden  sunshine  has  fled  away        ....  72 

The  ice  that  binds  the  brooklet 105 

The  logs  burn  red ;  she  \  if ts  her  head  ....  58 

The  mailed  sleet  is  driving 34 

The  morning  skies  are  dull  and  streaked  with  gray      .  94 

The  night  was  winter  in  its  roughest  mood        ...  30 

The  pale  sun,  through  the  spectral  wood       ...  37 

This  placid  day,  here  at  the  Winter's  end         .        .        .  117 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead         .        .        .        .  113 

The  rain  comes  down,  it  comes  without  our  call       .        .  1 1 1 

The  soft  wind  from  the  south  land  sped        ...  49 

The  snow  lies  white,  and  the  moon  gives  light          .         .  53 

The  sunbeams  slant  along  the  snow      .        .        .        .  112 

The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes      ...  60 

The  time  when  skies  are  free  from  cloud      .        .        .  115 

The  Winter's  a  book  of  poems          .....  70 

Though  it  lacks  two  months  of  May     .        .        .        .  103 

Thy  cold,  unmoved  face,  severely  fair       ....  96 

'Tis  the  world's  winter 99 

Under  the  drifted  snows,  with  weeping  and  holy  rite        .  105 

Under  the  snowdrift  the  blossoms  are  sleeping     .        .  91 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  I2/ 

PAGB 

Wan,  wind-wracked  month,  of  all  the  months  most  bare,  56 

We  are  very  glad  to-day  and  lift  our  praises         .        .  100 

When  flower-time  comes  and  all  the  woods  are  gay          .  108 

When  Roman  fields  are  red  with  cyclamen  ...  34 

When  snow  began  she  tried  to  make          .        .        .        .  I 

When  the  days  are  longer,  longer          ....  53 

Where  does  the  snow  go 115 

Where  for  carpet  lay  the  gaunt  brown  trees  below       .  38 

Where  now  the  vital  energy  that  moved   ....  80 

Wide  wintry  fields  left  bare  to  skies  unkind          .         .  no 

Wild  wintry  wind,  storm  through  the  night  95 

Winds  !  are  they  winds  ?  —  or  myriad  ghosts,  that  shriek,  54 

Wind  of  the  winter  night 51 

Without  the  snow,  no  snow-birds       .....  29 

Your  change  draws  near,  O  changeless  pall  of  grey    .  92 

Ye  storms,  resound  the  praises  of  your  King   ...  38 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 


PACK 

A  Bitter  Winter 55 

A  Book  of  Nature 70 

A  Flower 36 

After  the  Winter  Rain in 

A  Glee  for  Winter 5 

Candlemas 3 

Desolate 66 

Die  down,  O  Dismal  Day 90 

Dying  Winter Title-page 

Evanescence 91 

Expectation 108,  no 

Farewell  and  Hail 119 

February        .        .        .        2,  4,  6,  8,  16,  20,  39,  56,  68,  88,  115 

February,  A  Day  in 12 

February,  Afternoon  in      .        .         .        .        .        .  71 

February  in  Rome 34 

February,  On  the  Wind  in 65 

February  Rain 67 

February  Thaw 114 

Foreshadowings 51 


I  30  INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 

PACK 
Fourteenth  of  February,  Lines  Suggested  by  the     .        .      48 

Gold-Eyed  as  the  Shore-Flower 15 

Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  The 113 

Hymn  to  Bishop  Saint  Valentine,  A     ....  44 

Ice 105 

In  February 47,  87 

In  Winter ....        5 

In  the  Winter  no  Birds  Sing 35 

I  Went  to  Look  for  Roses         .        .        .        .        .        .18 

Lake  Cayuga  in  Winter         ......  96 

Late  February    .        .        .        .        .         .        ,      ^,        .116 

Late  Winter 117 

Leafless  Hours  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        -37 

L'Envoi  ..........          1 20 

Longing  for  Spring 78 

Melting  of  the  Snow,  The 106 

Midnight 104 

One  Swallow 100 

On  Observing  a  Blossom  on  the  First  of  February  .        .  2 

On  Receiving  a  Plaque  of  Apple-Blooms     ...  97 

On  the  French  Expedition  to  Russia,  1816        ...  38 

O  Soft  Spring  Airs 118 

O  Winter,  wilt  thou  Never  go 33 

Pansies 59 

Path  Through  the  Snow,  The 14 

Robber  Blueback 103 

Safe 95 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS.  131 

PAGE 

Seasons  .' 68 

Skating 18 

Sledge  Bells 58 

Sleep,  Baby  Mine 26 

Snow-Birds 29 

Snow-Bloom        .        .        .        .        .         .        .        .        .115 

Snowdrop,  A  Legend  of  the 75 

Snowdrop  —  Consolation 102 

Snowdrop  in  the  Snow,  The 75 

Snowdrop,  To  a 74 

Snowdrop,  The 94 

Snow  on  the  Moors    .        .         .        .        .        .        .         .17 

Snow  Shadows 37 

Spring  in  Winter xxvi 

The  Air  is  White 27 

The  Bells 69 

The  Cricket 73 

The  February  Hush 28 

The  Flowers  to  Come    .......  99 

The  Frost  Increased 98 

The  Frozen  Cascade 13 

The  Frozen  River 88 

The  Moth 38 

The  Return  of  the  Birds 101 

The  Snow-Bird 79 

The  Snow  Shower 24 

The  Snowstorm      ........     77,  94 

The  Snow  lies  White 53 

The  Thrush  in  February 40 

The  Widow  Bird 13 

The  Winter  Wind 83 

'Tis  the  World's  Winter    .        .....        .        .99 

Under  the  Snowdrift -91 

Under  the  Snows 105 


132  INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 

PACB 

Valentine,  A 43 

Valentine's  Day,  1873 50 

Valentine  in  Form  of  Ballade 49 

Valentine  Verses 46 

Vision  of  Spring  in  Winter,  A 84 

Void  Spring 117 

Waiting 112 

Warm  Day  near  the  Close  of  Winter,  On  a     .        .  109 

Weather,  On  the  Choice  of 30 

What  May  Be 53 

When  Springtide  Comes        ......  92 

Where  now  the  Vital  Energy 80 

Winter .  4,  7,  72 

Winter  Afternoon,  A 70 

Winter :  An  Elegy 29 

Winter  Day,  A II 

Winter  Evening,  A 7 

Winter  Hymn,  A        ........  9 

Winter,  The  Last  Snow  of 113 

Winter  Night,  A 65 

Winter,  Night-Winds  in 54 

Winter  Piece,  A 60 

Winter  Rain 89 

Winter  Rain,  The in 

Winter  Roundelay,  A 34 

Winter  Scene,  A 31 

Winter  Scene  in  New  Hampshire,  A    ....  10 

Winter  Sleep,  The I 

Winter  Storm,  In  a 69 

Winter  Sunset 16 

Winter,  Sunny  Days  in 22 

Winter  Thought,  A    ........  82 

Winter  Time 57 

Winter,  To  a  Bird  in 64 

Winter  Twilight *9 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS.  133 

PACK 

Winter  Walk  at  Noon,  The       ......      3° 

Winter  Winds        ........  2I 


Zero  in  the  Sun 


A     000032064 


